Memoirs
by laZardo
Summary: Albert Genette recounts meeting three aces as he works to expose the truth behind Leasath's war against Aurelia. New chapter: In Estovakia, one such ace recounts the day an enemy pilot changed his life forever. Reads and Reviews are much appreciated.
1. Preface

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**Prologue**

**0921 hrs.  
Onboard Auras Flight 216, 35000 feet over the Osean Continent****  
October 2020**

* * *

_At a speech in Alendal earlier today, Leasath Premier Diego Navarro announced that militarization along the border of Aurelia will continue. He also reiterated the threat of war against Leasath's neighbor._

_"Soon the exploitation of our country will end. Soon the regime that has oppressed our people will vanish from the earth. The proud Leasathian people will rise up and reclaim what the Aurelian thieves have usurped as theirs for generations!"_

_The speech was made in front of a military parade that featured the Gandr, the prototype airborne fortress that marked Leasath as a rising military power when it was unveiled last year amidst global condemnation..._

* * *

I've been assigned to cover the tension between Aurelia and Leasath, both in the Southern Hemisphere, and I've got my notes and background material on the seat table in front of me. I'm focused on the airline's provided TV screens though, as I've already memorized my material many times already.

Leasath's Civil War finally ended about a year ago due to the efforts of Leasathian Premier Diego Gaspar Navarro. But rather than work for peace, they've mobilized their newly-united armies at the Aurelian border. I've been tasked to cover the front line while my other reporter buddies can relax and watch the emergency meeting at the AN Security Council. I'm getting in whatever relaxation time I can get before I start.

The morning news plays out onscreen, and it has my undivided attention.

* * *

_A spokesperson for the Department of Defense announced that the Osean Air Defense Force records on the Belkan Conflict of 2010 will be made public on schedule. The records, which are expected to detail the involvement of the famous "Demons of Razgriz", are to be released for public access this December._

_The spokesperson also stated that the records will not contain any significant omissions except for those that pose threats to national security. However, many of those on the historical committee in charge of these records have expressed their doubts._

_"We actually lost some data in the chaos caused by the recent Oured Blackout, the entirety of it about one of the pilots in the Sand Island Squadron. We haven't been able to recover the data so far, but we have been pressured to continue with the release anyway."_

* * *

It was the time I spent in the back seat of Heartbreak One's old plane that still causes me to feel dizzy when traveling at high speeds...even when riding trains or cars.

Thankfully, there's nothing up here but calm sky for now as the news show moves on to international business.

* * *

_..a major shakeup in the aeronautics industry._

_General Resources has acquired the remaining assets of industrial giant Grunder Industries through government auction, including the Sudentor facility in North Osea. Gründer was formerly a Belkan state-run company until the annexation of North Osea in 1995 when it was privatized._

_It was determined that Gründer executives had been colluding with former officials of the now-outlawed Belkan National Worker's Party to fuel the Ceres Conflict of 2010. All Gründer assets were seized following the end of the international tribunal in 2014._

_GR had expressed interest in the facility as early as 2015 to supply their defense industry division. However the Valahia Crisis of 2017 and the controversy surrounding the GR Defense Force - then called the Security Enterprise, significantly delayed these plans. CEO Carlos Lazaro quietly revived the acquisition plans six months ago._

_The company has yet to comment on the fate of projects shuttered by the former Belkan weapons magnate, including new aircraft in development for Osean and other continental air forces. A GR spokesperson had this to say:_

_"GR will remain committed to nuclear disarmament while keeping Osean-Continental defense at its highest priority."_

_The company is expected to unveil plans for an expansion of Belka's high-speed rail network to Sudentor within the following weeks._

* * *

It's already been a quarter century since the war that changed the world...and long enough for the anxiously dreamy eyes of a rookie correspondent to fade into the hardened disillusionment of a cynical veteran.

Yet it was my experience caught in the middle of the war ten years ago that caused my boss to pick me out of the OBN Staff to lead the Griswall Bureau at the frontlines. "After all," he told me, "You faced down two superpowers with all their armies, navies, planes and who-knows-what-else. How hard could two little countries be?"

I accepted this assignment regardless of how serious my boss actually sounded with that question.

As much as I've always tried to keep in the thick of real matters - my primary responsibility as a journalist - it seems that things really haven't changed much in the last few years. Conflict brews every now and then, but nothing to keep more than the Internet blogs churning.

GR and Neucom continue to develop their rivalries, adopting failing and ruined nations into their fold. The superpowers bicker over what's left while the wannabe powers of the world like Aurelia and Leasath try to compete.

* * *

_In a press conference in Farbanti yesterday, defense giant Neucom announced that it will conduct its Rising Power military upgrade program exclusively with the Aurelia Defense Force amidst rising regional tension. The new contract will enable Neucom to supply the Aurelia Air Defense Force with new aircraft and upgrades through 2030. The first of these aircraft are scheduled to arrive next month._

_The decision was reached after the conclusion of flight tests in several countries, including Aurelia and its neighbor Leasath._

_Aurelia has repeatedly faced AN sanctions over accusations of alleged human rights abuses by its military against Leasath refugees as well as manipulation of Leasath politics. The Aurelian Government officially maintains that it cooperates with the International Red Diamond and AN protocols to ensure humanitarian treatment of refugees. Neucom also maintains that the aircraft provided are strictly for defense purposes._

* * *

Having enough of the news I pull out my laptop and flip it open as I wait for the breakfast cart to roll toward my row. With a few clicks, I load up the OBN documentary on the Demon Lord. It's an old documentary, but it's been one that's always piqued my interest and continued inspiration as a journalist.

My mentor was behind the documentary, travelling back and forth across the continents to get the interviews. He even went all the way to the front line of the Usean Continental War for the feature piece - a face-to-face interview with the wingman of that unflinchingly merciless ace of the Belkan War they called the Demon Lord.

Rather than watch the video again, I decide to look out at the window, as the jetliner sails above a gentle sea of clouds in an endless blue sky. The narration helps me imagine that dazzling array of metal and fire that always seemed to signify when a war truly had to be fought.

"My first thought was...he had potential." the voice of Larry "Pixy" Foulke seemed as respectfully fearful as it did when I first watched it.

'Potential' is an understatement, I thought to myself.

I took on this assignment not just to satisfy the Editor-In-Chief, but because I knew I would meet one of the three people that still knew him personally.

I had thought they had all disappeared - and likely died - after the end of the Valahia crisis three years ago. At least until I received an e-mail that I was sure came from one of them, stating that they had joined the Aurelian Air Defense Force.

And perhaps, in the miraculous chance that person had really survived that crisis, meeting them would rekindle that fire of hope that once burned in this journalist's heart.

* * *

_To be continued..._

_(Please leave a review. Thanks.)  
_


	2. Little Lost Bird

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)  
**

_"Did you know there are three kinds of aces? Those who seek strength, those who live for pride, and those that can read the tide of battle. Those are the three. And him? He was a true ace..." - Larry 'Pixy' Foulke, former UAF mercenary_

**Chapter 1**

**Dinsmark, Belka  
June 2015  
**

Centuries ago, the small state of Ustio turned to the Belkan Knights for protection against the barbarians that surrounded them, and thus became part of what was once the Belkan Empire. But as the age of knightly chivalry passed into history, discontent in Ustio and other areas acquired by imperial expansion began to grow. After Unification in the 1800s, Belka's aristocracy focused industrialization in their "home" territories rather than in their "outer" provinces. And when Belka began engaging Osea in its long series of armed conflicts, the mostly agrarian Ustio felt the economic strain hardest.

Still, Ustio remained the southeastern province of the Belkan Federation until the Federal Law Review of 1988, when Parliament had allowed their Eastern provinces to secede in order to reduce the economic strain on the country following their acquisition during the Expansion War in the 1960s. Ustio declared their independence on 12 May 1988 and declared the city of Directus as their capital, following the secession of the northeast to the Free Alliance of Territories in Osea.

But this did little to ease the crisis, and further territorial concessions were made into the 1990s to the FATO to the east and the Osean Federation to the west. It was believed these areas were rich in natural resources, and that deals with foreign companies to provide the needed resources to Belkan industry would help rejuvenate the economy. However, geological surveys conducted in 1992 showed the area did not hold nearly as much potential as promised, and the joint development groups responsible for these areas was found to be rife with embezzlement and corruption. The Belkans naturally felt swindled, and soon they had even more reasons to grow infuriated over their lot. The presence of Osean military observatories on its recently-ceded Crescence Islands inflamed the opposition to the government, but that was the least of their problems.

Relations with Ustio deteriorated rapidly as they began to grow closer to Osea and their regional ally Sapin, which purchased one of Belka's southern territories for itself.

Gebet and Recta were both conquered by Belka during the Expansion War. After independence, the Eastern governments turned to Yuktobania for assistance even as the Cold War dragged on. Ustio and the newly-independent Belkan territories were able to put aside most of their differences to sign the Mons Agreement promising mutual assistance in case Belka tried to conquer them yet again.

Before they knew it, both of the Cold War rivals found themselves at Belka's doorsteps.

Seizing on popular sentiment, the ultraconservative Belkan National Workers Party (BNAP) won a landslide majority of seats in the 1991 parliamentary elections and swiftly initiated measures to militarize the country, nationalizing key industries with the willing and enthusiastic consent of their owners and accelerating the superweapons programs that Project Pendragon began in the 1980s, before the crisis. Gründer Ltd., one of the country's premier arms manufacturers, was nationalized into the South Belka Munitions Factory and immediately retooled toward military output.

The superweapon Excalibur was completed in 1994 to much international protest but little action. Despite damning reports by weapons inspectors, the inevitable politics of the Cold War lingered in the Assembly of Nations Security Council, resulting in vetoes and easily-evaded sanctions. Either way, such concern quickly dissipated with the sighting of the Ulysses asteroid only months later. While the world's backs were turned, Belka took the chance to backstab them.

On 25 March 1995, Belka revoked the Federal Law Review and launched a massive assault into all their former territories with the intent of 'rectifying the mistakes of the last seven years.' The complex network of alliances and agreements invoked meant that the two arch-rivals now found themselves on the same side of a conflict, and they swiftly assembled a coalition to liberate the occupied territories, and claim the spoils.

Despite the overlying nationalistic themes, it was widely perceived throughout the region that the true intent of the war itself was to reclaim the oil and mineral reserves in the occupied areas, especially in Ustio. That country had entered into contracts to supply these resources to Osea and Sapin through routes that circumvented Belka. And with the country mostly occupied, Belkan state enterprise was expected to wield significant influence on natural resources - and regional policy.

With little more than defensive military capability of their own, Ustio was already mostly overrun by the end of March. Recta and Gebet's attempts to aid their neighbor with help from Yuktobania came to naught as the Belkan military swiftly launched their own invasions, rapidly advancing toward the borders of Wielvakia, Ratio and Nordland. By the time Osea and Yuktobania could put enough of their own differences aside to form their alliance, Belka had reclaimed most of the land they controlled in 1987.

With 90% of their air power destroyed and surrender not an option, the Ustian government began employing independent mercenaries to reinforce their manpower, particularly in the newly-formed 6th Air Division of their Air Force.

One of these mercenaries from the 66th Air Force Unit would become the Demon Lord.

Ten years later, Brett Thompson journeyed across three continents in search of him. He conducted a series of interviews with a number of aces shot down by codename 'Cipher' but never managed to find the Demon Lord himself. These interviews were assembled into an award-winning documentary called "Warriors and the Belkan War."

To commemorate the 10th anniversary of this documentary, OBC Films announced the release of an expanded edition they called "On Wings of Demons", to include extra footage from the interviews already included. Despite my enthusiasm, the film department didn't assign me to the project mainly because the scope of the research was 'internal,' as they put it. It almost sounded like they would simply tack on a few extras to create an easy-selling reissue. But an opportunity arose one morning when Brett himself had asked me to fetch some special material for the documentary...from within Belka itself.

In particular, Brett had asked me to personally get in touch with someone he had planned to interview back in 2005, before she mysteriously had to leave for reasons unknown to him. He gave me an old calling card with an address on it given to him by that ace before she disappeared, and I was surprised at how little he was giving me to work with.

"I don't know if you'll find her," he told me, "And if not, that's okay. But she promised me that the card would work for whoever she gave it to."

"So why don't you go yourself?"

"I would, and goddamn if I didn't get down on my hands and knees before the Editor in Chief for it," he chuckled in an attempt to distract from the forlorn look on his face. "Unfortunately, a bunch of numbers and letters written on an old, brown index card isn't as much a tip as a Freedom of Information Act request. That, and I think you and I both know this is an 'internal' project."

Apparently I had a better excuse. I had already been assigned to Dinsmark to document an exhibit on the 'underground' art scene, so the timing could not have been more perfect. This was practically a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity...that is, if the subject actually existed and lived at that very address at this point.

My flight to the Belkan capital from Oured departed the following day, on a rather warm and breezy afternoon. The flight itself was unspectacular.

All commercial flights to and from Belka over the last twenty years still diverted around the Waldreich mountain range. When departing from Osea, only the most eagle-eyed of spotters could catch a fleeting glimpse of the barren, concave expanses that were once cities and towns. But even in the middle of summer I could start to feel that familiar wintery chill - an ominous aura that the continent itself bore like its own Scars of Ulysses - that seemed to linger even as I got into the cab outside Dinsmark International's main terminal later that evening.

As I watched the city come into view, I noticed a lot of billboards along the highway had a large "G" logo mixed in their advertising content. Although there was little light pollution, the iconic stars of General Resource Limited seemed to shine brighter than any star or streetlight.

Usean entrepreneur Francis Mondeci founded the company in 2011 as a way to link up the industrial and commercial capabilities of the world's developing economies for peaceful development and rebuilding after decades of war. GR's idea of an "extra-governmental trading network" took off so fast that by 2015 many of Mondeci's own board were trying to get him into the same kind of industries that caused these wars in the first place despite his stern objections. Rumors flew of a private military company answerable only to GR's board of executives was in the works, and that didn't sit well with quite a few people.

The cab driver especially went on at length about how GR was eying the old Gründer Industries facility in Sudentor as if it were the last meat picked off the bones of the once-mighty Belkan industrial machine by greedy foreign interests, to quote him as close as I could remember. He probably wasn't the only one here that _didn't_ see Gründer for what it turned out to be five years ago.

But this was business news, and I wasn't reporting from the business section. I listened and nodded anyway, to keep me awake during the ride. The cab driver wished me a good night in thanks for paying attention to his ramblings as I paid him and got out at the small inner-city hostel where I would spend the night. I briefly wondered what would have happened if I took up astronomy instead of journalism as the "stars" practically followed me up to my room.

The next morning I followed the address on the card to a rustic apartment building on the Dinsmark Riviera. Overlooking the beach, the Riviera is one of the better-preserved sections of the old city, and being on the continent's northern coast, a well-positioned building could afford a spectacular rooftop view of both the sunrise _and_ the sunset. But few people other than the building owners made more than a vacation's stay here. Those were mostly from the global nouveau-riche such as Mondeci, supermodels and celebrities. Most of the 'older' rich had long since moved out to their countryside manors. Still, it wasn't as if this wasn't a part of the country that the Belkans could find a place to be happy about.

They had few places and even fewer reasons to, after decades of war and economic hardship. My cab driver aside, many other Belkans already started to believe that Mondeci's decision to build a new General Resource HQ in an industrial park outside of Dinsmark - well aware that several nuclear craters blocked most of the major land routes into the country from the west - was the only thing keeping their economy alive, let alone afloat. And behind the pristine hotel facades, one might even find the tattered remains of an old National Workers' Party propaganda poster broadcasting a faded, obsolete message in the side street.

I walked into the entrance hall of the apartment building and eyed the old buzzer buttons on the wall. The brass surrounding the name-cards looked as shiny and free of tarnish as they were when first installed more than a century ago. I matched up the name written on the card to one of the names on the wall, then pressed the corresponding buzzer. After waiting a few seconds for an answer, I pressed it again and talked into the speaker next to it.

"I'm here to see a Miss...uh..." I took another look at the address on the old card, "Marga...reta...Kepler?"

"That would be me," came a voice. I was surprised enough that I had gotten a response from her.

I nearly jumped when I realized she was actually right behind me.

The voice came from an auburn-haired, middle-aged woman in a tracksuit about as tall as I was. She had apparently finished her morning jog, and had just turned off her portable media player in order to talk to me.

"What brings you to my doorstep, young man?" she asked a bit suspiciously. "And how do you know my name?"

Despite my experience, I struggled to find the words to reply. "Uh...Brett- I mean Mr. Thompson sent me."

"Brett Thompson? That's a familiar name..."

It was then that I handed her the card Brett gave me. As she looked it over, her face took on a look of shock very similar to mine.

"Brett really send you, didn't he?" she said.

"Yes...yes he did."

"Hmm, I can see the resemblance," she added, quickly calming herself down. "Would you mind waiting in the lobby while I freshen up? Then we can talk over breakfast."

"Uh...sure. Yeah," I stuttered. Margareta then nodded and went upstairs to her apartment.

I half-expected to be chloroformed by a nondescript man in a business suit in the entrance hall as I waited. I nervously checked my camera and messenger bag, hoping that my equipment hadn't been confiscated or even bugged while I slept. Those 30 minutes waiting in the entrance hall seemed like a couple of hours, but Margareta finally came back down dressed in casual city clothing. Her hair had been bound into a ponytail.

"Apparently Mr. Thompson does pick his apprentices well," she said as she approached me, putting on a small, confident smile. She had very likely phoned and talked to him while I waited. "I trust you will keep what we will discuss between us and him until the time is right, Mr..."

"Genette. Albert Genette," I said, returning the smile and shaking her hand.

Her name, as it would turn out, is not actually Margareta Kepler. Her real name is Anne Zweig.

And ironically, Captain Annette "Nachtigall" Zweig is not technically supposed to exist.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	3. Open Wings

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)  
****Chapter 2: Open Wings**

_"For after all, what is man in nature? A nothing in relation to infinity, all in relation to nothing. A central point between nothing and all and infinitely far from understanding either." - Blaise Pascal_

* * *

_The following footage was excerpted from the "On Wings of Demons" 10th anniversary edition of the award-winning OBN Documentary "Warriors and the Belkan War."_**  
**

"You will return to greet your sons and daughters as they conclude their year of studies," they told us on that dreary morning briefing in March.

It was a sentiment I believed wholeheartedly for those first two weeks. Although I never married or had children myself, I never realized how wrong they were until it was too late.

**Callsign Nachtigall, Annette Zweig. Belkan Air Force, 8th Air Division, 7th Fighter Wing. With the moniker of Nightingale, she was best known for her independent and elegant acuity in combat. Today she works as a security advisor with a private military company.**

* * *

I grew up in Drachenau, a quiet town between Anfang and Dinsmark near the Northern coast. As a child my favorite fantasies involved growing wings and flying in the sky, above the constant cloud banks that hovered over this cold city. I dreamed and daydreamed about flight, and it was eerily appropriate that our home was on a hill that overlooked the nearby airfield.

Most of the girls that I went to school with wanted to become anything from stewardesses to Members of Parliament, but it seemed I was alone in wanting to become a pilot. After all, it was the closest thing any human being could get to growing wings until the Engineering majors at the universities finally figured out how to make a jetpack or a flying car. I loved to draw airplanes in art class, write about flying aces for language class.

At one point, I even tried to audition as the Blue Dove for our school play about the Razgriz.

But times were tough. The Expansion War was winding down toward its end, and our newly-annexed eastern provinces were taking a heavy toll on our economy with a myriad of civil disputes despite the government's efforts to grant them autonomy. My conservative Northern family was stingy enough to keep ourselves afloat through it all, but they were also very bitter about the influx of Gebeto and Rectan immigrants to our town.

It was a sentiment they weren't alone in sharing, though going to school with the _Ostkinder_ never personally bothered me. Perhaps it was because many of my school-teachers were from the more rural yet liberal south, also flocking to the northern cities for better opportunity. It was hard to say if they were really more open-minded and tolerant than the Northerners, or if they were just a lot more patient in teaching the _Ostkinder _the "proper" Belkan way of life, but I never really learned to hate them.

I had just entered secondary when Parliament began their Federal Law Review, intensely debating the consequences of granting independence to our Federation still in its infancy. The mere mention of the word "independence" completely changed society. The Easterners that once looked to the North for opportunity now relished the chance to move back out to a country they could call their own again.

And this incensed people like my parents, who thought it was bad enough that they were "polluting" the northern Belkan way of life while the government dawdled over autonomy instead of saving the economy. Now the government was just going to let them go back without consequence, they believed, taking our money with them?

This anger, this sheer_ hatred_ of the enemy was prime material for the wizened, old backbencher that held the single seat of an old far-right party in Parliament. While he publicly declined from stoking the debate and even quietly nodded as the Easterners gained their independence, he began building his bases of support behind the scenes.

He found support from every corner of society, from the steelworker and infantryman, to the middle-class parents worried about their Belkan native teenagers looking for something to believe in, the small entrepreneurs up to the biggest corporate CEOs, and even the generals and scientists of our vaunted military.

He had his connections in the media drop a nasty editorial in one TV show here, move some racial tension up to the front pages of a local paper there, and turn one of our neighboring countries into a scapegoat on the side. Before long he had managed to change the atmosphere in such a way that he actually had to act surprised when the people began to openly endorse his party to lead the government - with him as the Chancellor.

Wilhelm Drexler and his Belkan National Worker's Party easily overwhelmed their opponents in elections before I graduated from secondary school.

But the changes were apparent even before the elections. Although my thoughts were often in the clouds, I couldn't ignore the sound of the jackboots marching down Drachenau's main avenues or the hate-filled speeches on street corners warning all kinds of harm against the "ingrates" that seceded from our Federation.

The southern and Osean teachers I grew up with in primary found themselves harangued and blackmailed out of their jobs, and history and social studies classes began taking more revisionist and conspiratorial tones. When my classes practically began to repeat their propaganda, I often just silently mouthed it just to get it over with.

It sickened me, but not to the point where I wanted to protest about it especially when my other family members made attending the marches an almost weekly ritual.

The Eastern classmates I befriended in school left before I could say goodbye. Most of them had returned with their families in fear for those first few months after the election if they hadn't already packed their belongings and hurried back to their newly-independent homelands after they declared their freedom. And they were the lucky ones. The world barely turned more than a blind eye when they forcibly evicted the rest.

Eventually, the incessant propaganda began to worm its way into my mind as well. I had decided long before I graduated that I wanted to go into aviation as a career, and with the economy already geared toward militarization I figured joining the Air Force Academy would be the best chance I had of actually realizing that dream.

For far-rightists, Drexler's armed forces were surprisingly receptive to the idea of having more Belkan women in the ranks, though I was initially encouraged to put my obsession to good use in the laboratory or engineering department.

I suppose it was derived from some ancient Valkyrie notion that only Belkan women could give birth to Belkan men, so they had to be not only social but physically and mentally fit. Of course, their ideal also went that men would do the fighting while women took care of the more clerical tasks and homemaking, but with the New Millennium approaching they found themselves relaxing that rhetoric as more women signed up to fight for their country.

But 'fit' was an understatement. With officer's rank required for any pilot position, every airman and airwoman had to undergo an extremely rigorous training program. This included survival training...as well as a simulated capture and interrogation session using practically every method in the book. I not only learned how to love my country, but how to defend it to death and almost past my own dignity. Where the recruiters relented, my "interrogators" - often simulating vodka-hardened Yukes or Osean rednecks - were much more merciless.

And this was all before flight training even began.

The timing couldn't have been more apt. The prevailing mood among the army was already that of impending war. Every soldier in every branch was being mobilized for an invasion, even though most of us initially had no idea what country we would "reclaim" first. Judging from how much their country was denounced in that morning's rhetoric, we deduced that it would either be Ustio, Recta or Osea.

Ustio was especially singled out for having been the only prosperous member of the Federation outside Belka itself. The propagandists most consumed in their lunacy didn't just denounce the Easterners. They printed maps in propaganda posters of the ancient Reich which once spread from the Bannion to the Spring Sea.

I was assigned to the 8th Air Division, 7th Fighter Wing. Weiss Squadron was one of the many new squadrons the Luftwaffe set up in the years before the war, consisting of a mixed bunch of 'nuggets' and pilots that had earned their wings in the interim after the Expansion War.

We all flew freshly-manufactured F-16s, and I distinctly remember commenting about "that new plane smell" after getting into mine for the first time. Any one member of Boss Kellerman's Silber, it seemed, had at least thrice as many flight hours under their belt as all of Weiss combined, thus the squadron name being jokingly likened to a blank sheet of paper - "White" in Nordlish.

I figured that they literally just gave planes to anyone with the factories in Sudentor and Hoffnung working almost non-stop. And with so many new pilots added to the Luftwaffe in the 1990s, the list of callsign names ran slim quite quickly. I ended up with Nachtigall, after the small hunting bird. It wasn't nearly as grandiose as Grabacr or Gault, but I figured it would at least have more sentimental value more than "Weiss 5." But before any of us knew it, we had very little time to savor our enjoyment.

The evening before the invasion, Chancellor Wilhelm Drexler declared the Federal Law Review unconstitutional before his Parliament. In that rambling speech, he declared that every country that seceded over the last seven years had done so illegally, and the Great Lakes and Crescence territories we had lost were "stolen by foreign corporate connivance."

That meant the Belkan Armed Forces had every authority to seize these "provinces" back from their "illegal" Osean- or Yuktobanian-sponsored governments by any means necessary. But more than that, it also meant taking revenge on the nations that the Party believed were responsible for Belka's plight and occupying theirs in return.

This was not just about restoring a Federation. Their agenda was no less than the creation of a new Belkan Empire, from the Bannion to the Spring.

At the stroke of midnight on the 25th, three million soldiers, sailors and pilots marched over the 1991 border into six different countries, putting the entire continent and both Cold War rivals on notice. We vowed not to stop until every enemy capital was finally conquered and their territories and peoples reunited under the Black, White and Gold.

My squadron and I had already suited up well before Drexler had taken the podium. Our orders were to attain air supremacy in Ustio and secure the skies above our armored brigades. Other squadrons in the same base were bound for Ratio and Recta.

I can still remember exactly how I felt as my F-16 lifted off from the runway that night. Believe it or not, I kept my eyes closed as my F-16's landing gear lifted off from the ground. This was my first real flight, without any trainers or guided targets. It really felt like I was finally growing the wings I dreamed of. Yet at the same time I feared nothing, not even death. Like the bird, I accepted that I would have to live my life from here on out by three simple words: fly or die.

There was just one problem. I didn't exactly have an opportunity to put that philosophy to the test.

* * *

**10000 feet over Directus, Ustio  
28 March 1995  
1623 hrs.**

The first 72 hours of _Fall Zirkel_ - the name for the invasion of Ustio - had gone off like clockwork. The Ustians had been caught completely off-guard by the advance of the Army Group Southeast and its armored assault brigades. What they matched with Southeast in their numbers, they had failed to reinforce with tactics. As a result, our sorties often started and ended in different airbases deeper in Ustian territory.

On the other hand, our 7th Fighter Wing faced very little opposition in the skies apart from what few attacker squadrons the Ustians possessed. These consisted primarily of Sapin or Ratio-built trainers converted into light attack aircraft. And because there were so few of them to be divided among so many of our own squadrons, the only aces that emerged from these first few dogfights over the Ustio front were the ones from the Air Force's "Color Guard" that were already aces to begin with.

The other pilots and I quickly grew as envious as we were frustrated, having come back from our missions to be regaled with stories of fighter pilots over the Eastern front earning their ace wings practically on their first missions.

It could not have been that our intel was wrong if we could get detailed numbers of their _ground_ forces and their positions. But our own attacker squadrons had done bombing runs on airfields only to catch them mostly empty, as if they had all evacuated ahead of _Fall Zirkel_ for one last stand somewhere. All we had to do when we captured those airfields was to sweep out the wreckage and move our equipment back in.

Fortunately for us, this suspicion of a last stand became a reality when my squadron was ordered to a combat sortie at the Gates of Directus. I flew tail on that formation as we took off from a municipal airport we captured about 50 miles up. All of us were looking forward to landing at Directus International and strolling through the arrival gates, if only to make this particular mission more interesting.

"This is AWACS callsign Schalke. Weiss Squadron, do you read?" came the voice of an AWACS plane.

"Weiss Leader here, we're following the river Crescere into Directus," replied flight leader Rowland Schtolbrok, "We can see the city up ahead."

"Roger that, Weiss Leader. I got the five of you on my scopes entering the combat zone, 10 miles north of Saint Charles ward."

"Hey Wingelbauer, I think I can hear the cathedral's bells already," Sven Mudra, flying Number Four, added eagerly.

Directus was one of the more laid-back capitals of the Osean East, its architectural heritage preserved amidst the country's economic growth. The cathedral at the city center was effectively Ustio's national landmark and until the Law Review no Belkan could say they had traveled their country without getting a picture of themselves next to it. Predating the Renaissance, legend had it that its bell could be heard from as far as the border with Sapin and that it had never been replaced since the church was built.

Most remember when the bells tolled for freedom a few months later.

But having flown over the city during the invasion, I distinctly remember when they tolled for their city's impending defeat.

"Weiss Squadron, I've got your orders from Army Group Southeast," began another transmission. "Sanitize the skies above Sant-Karl and Gaston Districts. Afterwards maintain combat air patrol until the 25th Armored Division crosses into Sant-Karl."

"Weiss 1 copy," Schtolbrok replied.

"I'm sending you IFF data on the Ustio squadrons now. Heads up, there's a whole lot of them."

"God in Heaven," the flight leader replied as our HUDs suddenly lit up like a neon-green christmas tree, "That's where the entire Ustio Air Force has been."

"You got that right, Schtolbrok," agreed Weiss 3, Adler Wingelbauer. "Tigers and trainers and Fishbeds, oh my!"

The Ustians proudly refused to hold onto whatever aircraft we had stationed in their territory after they declared independence. At the same time, they were so caught up in their newfound prosperity that they never really prioritized modernizing their military beyond basic defensive capability.

As a result, most of the aircraft they had in their inventory at the start of the invasion were surplus hand-me-downs from other continental powers, most of them predating the Expansion War. They could acquire those on the cheap and in bulk to cover up their pilots' inexperience and lack of training.

Of course, it wasn't that they hadn't acquired more powerful aircraft than the ones they threw at us during the invasion, but the "Color Guard" had shot those down before we could even reach the combat zones.

"At least we're not shooting down one of our own," I replied with a smile, "Wouldn't want all the good stuff to go to waste."

"There's about 30 of them there," Three added, "Divide it up equally, we'll all be getting our ace wings today!"

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Weiss Team," was Schalke's supposedly disappointed reply, "You'll be competing with the 12th and Gelb for your kills today. Southeast still doesn't want to lose too many of you."

"Gelb? I thought they were all the way over in Sapin," Mudra groaned. "Goddammit, I was hoping to get a kill this time."

"If you're still running your silly competition," Schalke continued, "Zweig, Bodmann and Schtolbrok have a head start with two each."

"They're coming right for us," I pointed out on my radar.

"That they are. Schalke to Weiss, you are clear to engage, weapons free. Happy hunting!"

"Hey Schtolbrok!" shouted Norbert Bodmann, our Weiss 2, "I bet I can become an ace before you!"

"You willing to put money on that?"

"Couple hundred marks sound good," Two replied.

"You're on!" Schtolbrok replied, before my cockpit suddenly started ringing with missile warnings.

I shot a quick gaze at my radar, finding the dots had multiplied. The Ustians had fired off a salvo of semi-active missiles as soon as they could spot us.

"Everyone break!" Schtolbrok suddenly shouted, all five of us breaking formation in sync, evading the incoming missiles with ease.

The Ustians were also breaking formation, not wanting to start a game of chicken. On the edge of the radar, a lone aircraft had turned a little too steeply, and I was in a prime position to get on its tail. I was already gunning the throttle before I straightened out from evading, catching up to the trainer before its pilot could see me coming.

Unfortunately for him, trainers never performed as well as the real thing and missile lock was achieved with little effort. I decided not to waste one on him and instead chewed up his fuselage with the Falcon's M61, revealing the trainer's only real advantage - a more convenient ejection mechanism.

I gunned past the burning trainer and swung around to face the furball. The cathedral lingered in the distance like a blade of stone-colored grass. Above the city, my squadron was already making short work of the trainers...and soon they would have company.

A pair of Super Flankers suddenly blazed past my three o'clock, their powerful booster leaving a rumble that rattled my plane like the runt of a stampede. But my F-16 kept its composure, while the enemy trainers parted like the sea.

Two-man squadrons were uncommon in the Luftwaffe. They were only organized if and only if High Command had evaluated two exceptional pilots, usually from two different squadrons, as exceptionally talented but lacking in a certain individual quality that would be more than adequately fulfilled by the other. Equip them with the best planes from the Südbelka Munitionsfabrik and an they effectively had an Air Division of Two.

Orbert Jager and Rainer Altman matched that description, and their twin Flanker formation evoked respect from comrades and fear from their enemies.

The drawback, of course, was that half as many people in that squadron meant twice as much pressure. And because of their talent, they were expected to perform twice as well under twice as much duress. But the nation needed heroes for this war, not just exceptional squads and leaders.

Until that time, we were all competing for our share of the glory. Those that couldn't keep up were left to pick up the scraps.

One of which was a trainer that was actually putting effort into tracking down one of my wingmen.

"Four to Squadron, I have one on my six!"  
"Jesus, Mudra, that's the second time this week!"

"This is Five, I'll help you out."

Whoever was piloting this particular trainer certainly knew how to push it to the limits - probably a flight instructor himself pushed into combat. This particular chase had our aircraft diving closer to the old buildings of Directus' northeast wards, and I found myself having to pull up early in case my F-16 could not maneuver as well. This forced me to try to predict when my wingman and the pursuing trainer would pull up from a dive.

I found such an opportunity as I started to get dizzy.

'Now...' I suddenly thought, as my finger tightened over the fire button. A Sidewinder rocketed from my wing, flawlessly tracking the trainer's heat signature.

The trainer broke off his pursuit, but couldn't shake his new pursuer. The smaller aircraft seemed to disintegrate in mid-air as it plummeted straight to the ground. I only noticed it out of the corner of my eye as I passed it.

"Target down," Schalke announced, "Looks like Five stole one from Gelb, she's tied with Two now. Threat level is dropping fast."

"Hey Zweig, thanks..."

"No prob, Four. You'll still owe me a beer though if you lose," I replied, unable to force humor.

By now I felt one with my machine enough that my reflexes had become almost machine-like. As soon as flames started erupting from the trainer, I quickly checked my radar for the next target. The dots were slowly disappearing as our squad and Gelb chewed up the Ustians' aircraft one by one and sending the rest fleeing for their lives where once they had been so anxious to lunge right at us.

One of them - an A-4 Skyhawk - fled right into my field of vision. It knew I was going after it as soon as I banked into its path, its afterburners flaring as it raced to escape.

I squinted at the HUD, trying to keep track of the cannon's reticule as the Skyhawk dived even more dangerously close to the rooftops than the last trainer. But the last kill seemed to have given me the confidence to continue after this one.

I could almost see the individual tiles and chimneys before the Skyhawk then pulled up sharply, barely evading a brief burst of fire from my F-16's Vulcan cannon. I followed suit as soon as he started climbing though, a much easier task given my newer aircraft and higher altitude. With fewer enemies, I figured I wouldn't let my Sidewinders go to waste.

The missile made swift work of the Skyhawk's fuselage. A small puff of smoke burst from the cockpit as well as the pilot activated his ejection seat, while his craft continued its almost meteoric rise before stalling. I eased back on the throttle for a moment as I watched the burning hulk defy gravity for just a few more seconds, seeming to linger in stasis like a cartoon coyote before it leaned back and pointed a course to its grave several thousand feet below.

After that, there was nothing but the clouds ahead of me, slowly beginning to glow with the incandescent orange of the oncoming twilight. Looking up as I'd done so innumerable times in the past, it seemed not even the fires of war never scarred the skies as much as the land.

It almost felt like a place I could call home.

"Weiss Squadron, this is Schalke. Nothing but clear sky in the Sant-Karl and Gaston wards," came a triumphant dispatch from our AWACS to dispel my fantasy. "And it looks like you all made it out safely too. Great job."

"Hey Schalke, did you record our kill totals?" asked Bodmann.

"Sure did, Weiss 2," he replied. "Gelb swiped most of them, but one of you got your ace wings today."

"Get ready to pay up, Rowland!" Weiss 2 added confidently.

"Okay, Weiss' first ace is...our number _Five._"

Schtolbrok burst out in laughter over Bodmann's surprised cursing. I just smiled to myself quietly. "Gelb got that one that Bodmann was chasing, sorry."

"You got beat by a girl," Wingelbauer joked.

I shared in the humor. "Four hundred marks and a beer for me, boys. Pay up."

"No time for whining," Schtolbrok said, finally calming himself. "We might have seized Directus but the Ustians aren't done fighting yet. They're gonna make it hard for us up in the mountains."

"Seriously," Bodmann replied, "They barely stood a chance against _us,_ let alone Gelb. How hard could they be?"

* * *

**Sant-Avigny Air Force Base, Ustio  
1818 hrs.**

Much to our continued disappointment, we did not end up strolling through the arrival gates of Directus International, which continued to evacuate foreign civilians back to their home countries. Instead we returned to the same base we took off from. As soon as I got out of debriefing I was approached by a junior officer who told me to report to the command room.

The base commander, his secretary and some of the junior staff were waiting with celebratory smiles on their faces. The commander, in particular, was standing before a small case on his desk. I smiled calmly, knowing quite well what was inside, though somewhere deep in my mind I imagined finding some kind of engagement or wedding ring inside from some fan.

The plain, black cross with an inlaid triangle pattern did not seem like much, but the basic _Belkakreuz_ Second Class medal was awarded automatically to any pilot that had shot down five planes verified in combat. It could be upgraded later on to a First Class with further decorations after surpassing certain kill totals. There were other decorations for exemplary performance and chivalry in the air, usually above and beyond the call of duty. No doubt there would be hundreds of those pressed and handed out as the campaign went on.

The commander took the medal out of the box and put it around my neck, in the proper ceremonial position, while reciting the usual proclamation regarding valor in combat and so forth.

"Sorry for the lack of ceremony, Lieutenant. Our little _blitzkrieg_ has made the pomp and circumstance a bit of a luxury."

"It's all right, sir," I replied with a courteous smile. "Thank you."

"Keep that in your locker before your next briefing," the base commander replied. "_Fall Zirkel_ is still ongoing, and we will need every pilot airborne as much as possible, though you and Weiss can get some rest for now. Dismissed."

"We will, sir, thank you." I gave a salute, turning to leave. However, before I could take my first step out, the base commander interrupted me.

"By the way, Lieutenant," he asked as I turned to face him again. "What did you think of your last sortie? You can be frank."

"I guess..." I stuttered, taken a bit off-guard. I looked out the window. "It felt...a little too easy."

The base commander smiled. "Well, this is Ustio after all. Most of those pilots were probably newer than you are. But you performed well, that's what counts."

"Thank you sir."

"In any event, you should only expect more of a challenge up there..." the base commander then leaned forward in his seat, "The Ratianos will be sending their fighters as we approach their borders. They will defend what they have stolen with their lives, so I should only expect you will fight with more vigor."

"I will, sir," I replied, putting on a soft smile before I left.

I dropped that smile as soon as I was sure the base commander could not see my face.

I had pursued and hunted my prey on orders. I had started earned the reward and glory for them. But apart from the bet winnings still owed to me, I didn't feel like I had gotten any satisfaction out of it. The visceral thrill was there, but it wasn't being diverted to anything.

Something was missing from the dream I was now living.

And I would finally find out what that was...on a cold and snowy day over the mountains.

* * *

_**To be continued...**_


	4. First Encounter

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)  
****Chapter 3: First Encounter**

_"__For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!_"— George Gordon Byron, _The Destruction of Sennacherib_

* * *

**9800 feet over Route 413, Ustio  
****31 March 1995  
****1751 hrs.**

"Dammit! Dammit, dammit!"  
"Weiss 5, give me your status. Can you keep airborne?"

The invasion of Ustio was nearing its completion at the end of the very first week, and all of us were still excited to lunge into battle.

The pickings had gotten a little better in the past few days, in both senses of the word. With the Color Guard shipped off to more fruitful pastures after the Ustian Air Force's destruction over Directus, we had all of the remnants to ourselves. Better yet, with our army approaching their borders with Ratio, their flying style had grown more desperate. And that meant they made mistakes that we could take advantage of.

"Affirmative, it's spraying everywhere but I can still keep her level."

That, unfortunately, did not give them a complete monopoly on mistakes or rotten luck. It was on a rather dreary afternoon above the Ustian countryside that my F-16 took an unlucky cannon shell to the fuel lines, too far from the base we took off from.

"Weiss 5, set course for bearing 3-2-5, Depardieu Municipal at 50 miles. You should be able to touch down there."  
"Copy Schalke. Bugging out."  
"Remember Nachtigall, if you can't make it then eject safely. You can get a new plane, but we need our heroes alive."

The nearest base was a municipal airport that we had only seized the night before. It had been rapidly converted into a supply and refueling base for aircraft in transit toward the front.

It was also where I would prepare to find what I had been missing since the war began.

* * *

**Depardieu Municipal Airport, Ustio  
****1 April 1995  
****1032 hrs.**

I was sweating like my cockpit had turned into a sauna, as the plane eventually shuddered to a relatively smooth stop on the airport's lone runway. I put all my concentration into easing the plane into the hangar, with the fire trucks already out in force just in case my plane finally decided to give up the ghost.

I gasped for air as I shut off the motor and raised the canopy, the emergency staff already having the ladder out to get me a safe distance away. As I left, one silver lining in the clouds: I could hear the staff mention the leaks had stopped, so the repairs could begin.

I drew a long, forlorn sigh as I gazed upon the metal hulk of the bomber parked beside my crippled F-16. The Belka Maschinenfabrik BM.335 _Lindwurm_ had been the staple of our bomber fleet since the jet engine was invented. What it lacked in speed compared to the Osean B-52 or Yuktobanian Tupolevs it made up for in armor and payload, though the armor wasn't quite as strong as it was before thanks to improvements in interceptor firepower.

My fighter looked pathetically microscopic in comparison, but at least it only required a couple of airmen to repair while a full crew prepped the ancient bomber just to take off, loading bombs into its massive underbelly. They didn't look particularly hopeful that they could get my own F-16 back to work any time soon though.

But the biggest disappointment lay ahead. As soon as I got my bearings I was asked to report to the airport's security office - which had turned into an impromptu command room. There I learned I was to be temporarily reassigned...but not to another fighter squadron.

"A _bomber crew_...sir?"

For the first few milliseconds I had expected the base commander to surprise me with an April Fool's prank. He had already gotten me shocked enough for him to think I'd fallen for it.

"That is correct," he replied, without any of the joviality, "As you may have noticed, KG 719 is here and preparing for Operation Javelin - the destruction of the last major Ustian Air Base in the Grensbergen mountains. They're also short one tail gunner."

I obviously wasn't relieved that it wasn't a prank. "But I don't have enough bomber hours," I pleaded.

"The gun used in the tail position of the_ Lindwurm_ is mostly similar to the vulcan cannon found in most fighter planes. Your crew already have more hours on them than you accumulated during academy. They'll help you out if you're not familiar with something."

"With all due respect, sir..."

The base commander leaned forward to impose. "Lieutenant Zweig, I understand how humiliating it must seem to you to work with a crew, but our mechanics are already working hours past their shifts just to cover all our bases, and we need as many people in the air as possible until Ustio has been fully repatriated."

I took a long sigh.

"Commandant, surely there are spare planes available in the hangars. I would not object unless the plane is propeller driven."

"Or civilian? This is still technically a civilian air facility. Apart from your squad and our bombers, there aren't any other aircraft here apart from airliners and private jets."

I put my hand to my face, utterly dejected. "All right...if I don't have a choice. I will accept the assignment."

It was then that the commander took on a more relaxed tone of voice. "You have my personal assurance that once Operation Javelin is complete, your aircraft will be waiting for you back here. If we haven't repaired it, I'll have KG 719 drop you back off in Directus."

"Sir. I understand."

"Don't fret too much over this, Lieutenant. By this time tomorrow you'll be ready to fight the Oseans. I'm sure you'll find them more of a challenge than the Ustians. Dismissed," he concluded, with a thoughtful smile.

I gave a trembling salute and walked out of his office.

* * *

**Hangar 3  
1101 hrs.**

My jaw was clenched from the moment I stepped out of the base commander's 'office' to the moment I stepped into the briefing area just inside the open hangar.

"Lieutenant Zweig?" came a slightly over-excited voice from at the front of the crowd. I caught sight of a bomber pilot who appeared to be almost as old as the BM.335 itself.

I saluted. "Yes sir, I've been assigned to this flight."

My little announcement elicited a few chuckles from the assembled flight crews, and I felt my face redden a little.

"Welcome to KG 719, Nightingale. Please have a seat, we're just about to start the briefing."

Fortunately, I found a seat in a row close to the back and sat down before the chuckling continued. A few of the crew still took brief glances at me, but I tried to ignore them and focused on the map.

We were all gathered beside a bulletin board that had been hastily pinned over with maps for our briefing. Suddenly it was like we were in one of the old Great Wars, preparing for the great bombing Blitz.

"All right, let's get started. Our target today is Valais Air Base, located here." The commander pointed to a spot on the map of Ustio buried in the mountain range. "It is the last major airbase for the UAF and a source of headaches for our ground forces as they make their way toward the border of Cittino Province currently held by Ratio."

The flight commander then clenched and clasped his fists. "Our objective is simple: we're to beat the Army to the punch and blow it the hell up."

A couple of the other crew members cheered in the background, clearly enthusiastic over their mission.

"Our flight's callsign is Otto. We will take off from Depardieu and rendezvous with our escorts from Drossel Squadron here," he continued, pointing at a town about a quarter of the way between the base and the mountains.

As I listened, I tried to console myself to the idea that this would only be a simple bomber flight and I would be back at base for dinner.

"Furthermore, according to our intelligence, opposition is expected to be fairly light," the officer continued.

"You mean they're still trying to shoot back?" one of the navigators quipped, to which the flight commander responded with a smirk in kind.

"I'm sure the fighter pilots among us will know that Ustian air 'power' is for all intents and purposes nonexistent," the pilot replied, in a tone that seemed as reverent as it was sarcastic. "With that in mind, the Ustian government-in-exile has hired mercenary pilots for last-ditch reinforcements, so we cannot be entirely sure of the threat level."

"Mercs? Our escorts will handle them easy." the gunner replied, before turning to look at me mischievously. "I bet our new tail gunner won't have a problem, either."

"I'm sure you're already aware then that the Nightingale of Weiss Squadron will be replacing Lieutenant Decker while he's recuperating." the commander explained before nodding at me. "I expect you to extend the same honor and courtesy that you do for your other male pilots. You are all dismissed, and happy hunting!"

We stood up, saluted and went to gear up. While the crew were excitedly chattering among themselves, I grumbled all the way to my gunner seat.

I never thought highly of these soldiers of fortune during the war, because I never found anything particularly admirable about them at the time.

Mercenary pilots were a breed of pilots that had only come into being at the dawn of the Cold War, when the great powers began to fight their wars by proxy. Like their land-based counterparts, their only loyalty was to money, and specifically to who offered more of it than the other entity. Loyalty was temporary and skill ultimately came second to the paycheck. They were neither beholden to nation nor corporation except when it would make for a good reference on their resume.

By contrast, we had been educated in the "old order" of the rules of combat outside the requisite National Workers' Party propaganda. Bound to serve through thick and thin, monarchy, democracy and authoritarianism, and educated not just in tactics but in honor. All soldiers fighting for a country's flag adhered to these unwritten rules...or were supposed to. Times changing as they were, it seemed like fewer and fewer people saw the value in honor as compared to the value of hard currency.

And the Ustians, having only been independent for less than a decade, clearly failed to grasp this concept altogether with their economic boom granting them abundant reserves for wages. It was a failure that Belka believed they would pay for with their sovereignty.

My comrades had already started celebrating our impending victory with a rowdy breakfast at the mess hall earlier, but I would have none of it. I simply sat quietly at my table, trying to swallow my pride and my rations, and trying to put my mind past today to my next flight with Weiss Squadron.

* * *

**5000 feet above Mount Sant-Petri  
North of Valais Air Base, Ustio**  
**2 April 1995**  
**1330 hrs.**

_It was a cold and snowy day._

If there was one positive thing that I could derive from the long flight out to Ustio's mountain range it was the fact that I was somehow able to get some sleep until the battle began.

Still, our embarrassment and frustration had dogged me all the way out into these frigid mountain peaks. Apart from our aging bomber fleet, our escorts consisted mainly of relatively inexperienced pilots on _their_ very first mission. It was almost as if we somehow expected them to be better than whomever the Ustians had hired to pilot whatever aircraft they had left.

To make matters worse, as the plane's tail gunner my only control panel consisting of the fire and reload buttons of a vulcan cannon. I could swivel around in my seat to get an almost 180-degree field of view, but it felt more like a guided tour on rails. I couldn't swivel all the way around to get a view of what was going on ahead of us. That and it had to be much colder in this bomber than it was outside.

_"This is Otto 5, my IFF is out of commission. Unable to carry out duty. Withdrawing from operation airspace."_  
_"Roger Otto 5, withdrawal orders received. Exit combat airspace bearing zero-two-zero and RTB."_

It came as a relief, when the bomber's IFF gave out over the mountains. I had not even fired a single bullet, and it seemed my mission was already over before it began.

"So we're done here?" I asked, making sure we had already disengaged. I leaned over in my seat to compensate for the aircraft tilting away from the group.

"Unfortunately, yes," the pilot radioed back, "But you're not gonna relax in the seat until the radar's clear. If they try to shoot at us we can shoot back."

But as our bomber broke off from the pack, the battle slowly slid into my field of vision. I could see a swarm of different-colored dots swarming about the infinite blue, their contrails weaving a tangled web as they pursued each other. And for the first time since the war began, I started to feel scared about the battle's outcome.

From the looks of things, we were actually losing. Bright flashes of fire and smoke erupted where I estimated our bombers' flight path took them. Our faulty IFF managed to excuse us from that carnage, however a pitiful reason that was. But the malfunction was only the start of our trouble.

Only seconds later, I caught my first glimpse of him.

"We've got a bandit approaching bearing 1-7-0. Zweig! Take care of it!"

A single plane had broken off from the furball and raced in a beeline directly toward us. From its silhouette, I gathered that it was an F-15 Eagle, a premium fighter even for the Ustian Air Force. I huffed a little, figuring they really did save their best aircraft for last, and I had to encounter them in a bomber instead of having a proper duel. It was painted a standard light gray, with blue-tipped wings and stabilizers. At the range he pursued us, it was an easy target to fire at...or at least it was supposed to be.

I took aim with the vulcan cannon, trying to estimate where he would fly so I could lead him.

But even though I couldn't see his face, I easily imagined him smiling and licking his chops from the way he seemed to approach our disabled plane. His F-15 slid from side to side, as if showing us all the angles with which he could shoot us down, almost like a kitten toying with its food.

I could feel the cannon's vibrations working their way up my arms and into my body as I jammed the firing button, sending high-explosive rounds hurtling toward its target. But all of them only found air. The way he maneuvered his plane to avoid the rounds and still have my turret in his own gun-sights was a sign of great, almost unnatural skill.

"This guy is good..." I muttered to myself. "Shame I have to try shooting you down with just this."

"Where's our fighter escorts?" the navigator screamed through the radio.

"They're all busy back there! Two of the Ustio mercenaries-" the co-pilot's voice was quickly drowned out by another burst of gunfire that the mercenary's plane evaded. "...trying to get the side gunners to help you back there!"

"Goddammit! Why won't you go down!" I shouted to the fighter.

After what seemed like several spent magazines, the enemy pilot seemed to break off his pursuit.

"Is it pulling back?" the pilot radioed.

"I think he is. Lucky us. I think my gun's jammed," I replied, leaning back in my seat to give the old gun a good kick.

"Good, that should give us some time to-" the pilot couldn't finish speaking as alarms suddenly went off all around the plane. "Christ! Missile inbound!"

"Deploying counter-measures...they're not working! It must be radar-guided-"

The missile slammed into our engines, effectively ripping one wing from the fuselage and knocking the navigators out of their seats. The plane started to lurch over, sending the crew tumbling about as it entered its death spiral.

"Everybody off the plane NOW!" the pilot shouted to me. I had weathered the shockwave by clinging to my seat, so it didn't faze me as much as it should have.

None of us replied verbally, but we all started climbing for our parachutes as the plane started to break apart. We had all silently resolved to take our chances in the icy mountain frontier rather than face certain death in fire.

I closed my eyes as I let the wind pull me out of the plane's emergency exit. As I fell from the sky, I briefly imagined myself truly growing wings and flying away from this madness, but reality managed to hit me long before the ground did. I opened my parachute and maneuvered toward a snow-covered plateau where my crewmates also chose to land.

Halfway down we could feel the rumble of the plane and its ordinance slamming into a nearby mountain face jolting our parachute-suspended bodies like puppets.

The force at which the wind slammed me into the snow left me dazed but still conscious. My breath had been knocked out, and I felt dizzy as I struggled to unfasten my parachute. But once free, all I could do was stare up into the sunny sky, holding my arm out to block out the sun's glare and view the smoking battlefield from below.

The battle was already over...and we had lost. Our own aircraft and the enemies we had killed left thin, dusty black trails lingering in the atmosphere long after they had been shot down. There was a sort of eerie peace left behind as the surviving Ustio fighters withdrew toward Ustio, their path heading right over us.

One of them, however, stayed for a while.

I could just see his plane, circling around us and the plumes of smoke from our bomber's burning remnants like a vulture before heading back into the fray.

And I could make out the silhouette of an F-15 Eagle with darkened wingtips.

I clenched my fist around the shape as if I crushed a fly for the moment before it slithered back into my field of vision. I was hurting, angry, and hateful. But at least I was alive and conscious.

And I realized that I had finally found what I was missing.

* * *

**Chambeau Army Base  
Medical Ward  
****3 April 1995  
****0021 hrs. **

By some miracle, all of us aboard _Otto 5_ had survived our bomber's fiery demise, luck extended only to a few of the other bomber crews or our escort fighters. Each of us had equipped rescue beacons that we activated once our parachutes had deployed.

Even more miraculously, a nearby helicopter flight was alerted to our rescue beacons and they plucked us out of the winter wilderness before nightfall. It was especially good timing, as they had informed us that the Ustians had actually managed to attempt a counterattack.

"Who knew what they would have done to us if they had claimed us before the cold," the navigator bemoaned during the flight back.

We were still shivering when they checked us into the ward back at the nearest base. A couple of us had broken and dislocated bones, but the worst I had was a little frostbite. I was told I would be back in the air by the end of the week, but that was little solace for the frustration that continued to linger.

I could hear the doctors conversing with the crew nearby. They sounded as incredulous as they sounded angry over our tale of survival.

"...all got destroyed by two enemy fighters. _Two!_"

"They'd even shoot down an aircraft that's out of commission? Despicable."

"All that skill and no morals? It's like they've hired...hired demons or something!"

"They haven't met our ace squadrons yet. When it comes to dogfights, you need skill _and_ heart. And you know what they say about deals with the devil."

The metaphor was quite apt.

I could feel a new rage burning inside my chilled heart, and it wasn't the cup of hot cocoa they'd given me. It was if someone had conspired against me, plucking me out of my cockpit with a stray bullet, and placing me in the path of a rampaging demon. I didn't know if they were preparing me for something or were merely toying with me for their sick pleasure.

I imagined the mercenary laughing it up back at base as he received a bonus for shooting down crippled aircraft, their crews falling helplessly to an icy doom. I even imagined it in such lifelike detail - including the hideous caricatures used by the National Workers' Party to describe their 'enemies - that it semi-consciously caused me to crush the emptied paper cup in my hand.

After I snapped out of it, the only thing I knew was that once I got back in the air I would find him and use my talons to slay this 'demon' once and for all. I swore to myself over and over that I would do so for pride, honor and country.

But mostly - as I realized that night - for me.

The Ustian fighters I had fought on the way here were no match for me - and that was exactly the point.

I needed a challenge, and I realized in those snowy mountains that it was something only the Demon Lord of Ustio could provide.

I just never realized what it would cost to gain such an opportunity.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**

_Author's Note: If you're an earlier reader, you may have noticed that I added a little more background and combat to Zweig's backstory. Be sure to check out the new Chapter 2 for more._


	5. Revelation

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

**

* * *

On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)**  
**Chapter 3**

Two months after the declaration of war, the Ustio Air Force and the coalition of Allied nations formed for Operation Independence liberated Directus from Belkan control. Infuriated with the National Workers Party's obsession with militarization and conquest, cities across South Belka peacefully demilitarized and surrendered to the Allied coalition, hoping for good terms. On 28 May 1995, the Allies also abrogated the non-aggression treaty they signed with Belka after the Expansion War of the 1960s, allowing them to march across the border into the more conservative - and hostile - North Belka.

Yet the full extent to which Galm Team attacked Belkan military targets and infrastructure was not revealed until after the celebrations ended. The swath of destruction that burned from Solis Ortus to Hoffnung at the beginning of June 1995 totaled to the hundreds of millions of zollars in damage, and that was only counting their direct assault. The Demon Lord and his wingman Solo Wing Pixy truly did rain fire and brimstone upon their targets, inspiring both friend and foe to do the same in fear...or worship.

But the worst was yet to come.

A great air battle unmatched in history took place in Belka's Priority One Strategic Airspace B7R three days before the burning of Hoffnung. It wasn't the first time the Demon Lord had entered the Round Table. Yet this battle held significance that I could relate to.

This was the very battle where former Sand Island flight instructor Jack Bartlett - aka "Heartbreak One" - was shot down along with his mechanic, a Belkan flying ace called "Huckebein" that later defected to Osea. Although I knew both of them personally, government restrictions prevented me from revealing the latter's identity at the time I made my contribution to the documentary.

Records confirmed more than 100 fighters in B7R that morning. The Belkans had the majority in numbers as B7R was a source of national pride to them. This included Schwarze Squadron, the defecting ace, the infamous Grabacr and Ofnir, as well as Nachtigall.

However, according to Thompson, data was only made available for all but three of them. Of the three missing, two were unavailable due to the aforementioned restrictions. We safely assumed those were Huckebein's and Grabacr's. But Nachtigall's data was never available, even for his initial research 10 years ago.

The only info he had been able to obtain despite all that research was the card that led me to her.

And as she told her story over coffee and brunch at a cafe by the Dinsmark Riviera, there was a very good - and very frightening - reason behind the 'special circumstances' for which her data had been purged from the system.

* * *

**Neu Eisendorf AFB, Belka****  
28 May 1995**  
**0845 hrs.**

Weeks had passed since I first encountered the Demon Lord over the Ustian mountains, but I had gotten no closer to him than I had in the tail gunner's turret. And my rage continued to grow.

As my base commander in Depardieu promised, I was transferred back to Weiss flight to fight over the Great Lakes as soon as I was discharged from the hospital. But the Demon Lord remained in Ustio to liberate his people and fatten his bank account. His legend pervaded through the pilot gossip that echoed through the hangars, crew quarters and mess halls. But he had probably forgotten all about me, just one body in the pile of corpses and twisted metal he left in his wake.

Of course, I had left my own little trail for him to sniff out. I moved up from Weiss 5 to Weiss 2 and from Second Lieutenant to First, with my first Lion's Honor Medal and supplemental Oak Clusters by the time the Allies advanced to our border. Many of my fellow pilots began to wonder why I'd picked such a relatively tame little bird as my callsign. But all I wanted was for him to know that I hadn't forgotten about him.

Not entirely, anyway. Perhaps getting used to the rage allowed my mind to settle, and gather my thoughts. I just didn't seem as furious at him as before with time passing by.

Despite our best efforts, we could barely slow, let alone stop the Allied advances erasing our gains. The Luftwaffe announced a massive reorganization as we prepared to shift to home-front defense. I was rotated out of Weiss Squadron the previous morning, almost as spontaneously as the accident that sent me to Valais. This time, however, I welcomed the change. They had me transferred to a base on the Northern side of the Waldreich at Neu Eisendorf to receive new deployment orders.

That morning, I woke up at reveille to find the barracks already half-empty. I thought I overslept, until I limbered over to the nearest window and looked out. It seemed the entire base had come to a standstill, with only a bare minimum of personnel operating...and what appeared to be various dark-uniformed security positioned lurking all over the place to compensate.

I got dressed and made my way to the entrance, asking some of the other awoken pilots to find out what happened. According to them, an important meeting had been called involving those missing pilots in Neu Eisendorf's central command building. They seemed to have been picked beforehand and "woken up by the BVK," though the _reasons_ for their selection eluded them as well. Unfortunately, that piqued my curiosity even further.

As I walked outside, my eyes squinted under the morning light as I got a full view of the base's pseudo-abandonment. It seemed almost paranormal that a base so close to the frontlines could be this..._quiet._ It even looked like the staff had been 'body-snatched' and replaced while we slept. But the uniforms they wore - and the vehicles they drove - weren't the standard uniforms of the Luftwaffe or even the regular military police. Instead, all of them wore the uniform of the _Belkaverteidigung Korps_, the special paramilitary units that the Nationalists had formed before they took power.

Although they seemed to tolerate my presence as a member of the military, the way they eyed me as I passed felt like they drained the very essence out of my body. The Korps were the Nationalists' hired thugs, known more for their fanatical loyalty than their actual fighting skill. I had only encountered them occasionally at the academy, where we mostly likened them to mindless worker insects. Their runic logo, which was also prominently displayed on their equally-black vehicles, certainly helped to promote their cult-like image.

Naturally, there was always tension between the BVK and the 'regulars,' as they called us. But as long as we didn't crack jokes within their earshot, nothing got out of hand. Perhaps it helped that Chancellor Wilhelm Drexler preferred to have his Party "co-exist in mutual harmony" with the military as proud Belkan institutions, at least publicly.

Today the 'drones' concentrated themselves around the base's auditorium. It made sense, given that a special event requiring half the people in the barracks could only be held where they could all be accommodated. Any of the regular base personnel that went by only seemed to be repelled as if they telepathically told those people to keep moving without speaking.

I couldn't even get near the main entrances myself. Even if I had the 'required clearance' asked of me by one of the drones, their concentrated presence in front of the auditorium felt like a force field, pushing me away against my will. But like a black hole, I inevitably found myself drawn closer, wanting to know what lay on the other side.

By now, I had completely succumbed to my curiosity. I made my way out of the auditorium building and around the back. I quickly ducked behind a dumpster when I noticed a number of Luftwaffe pilots in their dress uniforms leaving the auditorium's emergency exit. Many of them were either shocked or otherwise nervous as each of them left. The last one was followed by a BVK 'grunt.'

That grunt, perhaps by accident, had left the door very slightly - and very temptingly ajar.

I started to wonder what on earth the BVK would want to bring all these pilots to the auditorium for, especially if they brought out so many of them looking like they had just come from the G-force simulator.

Not all of them were religious enough for this to be a church service. And it couldn't have been a simple written examination to affect them that greatly.

I couldn't help myself. I snuck in and stuck to the walls of the passageway as I approached the door to the main hall.

The door to the auditorium itself was also slightly open, enabling me to at least listen while keeping obscured. If I moved from side to side, I could catch a glimpse of the whole auditorium from somewhere close to the podium, where an aged and somewhat corpulent general of the paramilitary unit stood before the microphone in full regalia.

Gruppenfuhrer Heinrich Strossen earned his general's stars in the Expansion Wars, but unlike others of his rank he frequently savored the pomp and circumstance that came with his position. It was probably why he transferred to the BVK in the first place. He wanted to lord it over everyone else to a much more receptive audience, like the one in front of him.

Behind him was a large map of Belka marked with recent Allied advances, projected on a large screen. Gigantic banners draped with the Triangle lined either side, along with the ancient 'standards' that the BVK liked to trot around during parades. The general smiled as the spotlight bore down on him, perhaps to fuel his usual ultrareligious sentiments.

Against every voice in my head telling me to leave right then and there, I made the final decision to stay.

"Now that we have sorted the chaff from the wheat, we shall get to the heart of the matter," the general began. "You have all been called here, no...chosen is more the word, for your skill as ace fighter pilots, and your loyalty to our country. There is no turning back, as you will all take part in the greatest operation ever conducted for the salvation of the Fatherland: Operation Eden."

A wave of hushed yet enthusiastic murmurs rippled from within the crowd.

"As you may already know, the Fatherland has a number of nuclear devices in his arsenal. The Assembly of Nations refers to them as..._weapons of mass destruction_." A few hisses and boos followed at the mention of the AN.

I simply stood frozen in place, regretting my decision and reprimanding myself for staying. But why did I insist on staying to hear the rest? Maybe now that I had started down this slippery slope, I had to accept that I could only keep falling.

"But we will soon use these weapons for a much more noble purpose...the _protection_ of our Fatherland!" Strossen proclaimed, "And you, here today, will deliver this salvation!"

We had developed a small nuclear weapons arsenal after the Expansion War as part of the _detente _policy, long before before Excalibur was built. It was nowhere near as big as Yuktobania's or Osea's, and most of the ready weapons were tactical rather than strategic, but nukes being nukes they were enough to devastate all of the provinces that seceded and then some, and that wasn't counting any potential escalation.

"We have designated a number of squadrons to deliver these devices across the country," the general announced, as several large red dots appeared on the map along the Waldreich mountains. The names of several squadrons also appeared beside each dot. "Each of you that stayed will be relocated to these bases by tomorrow morning to begin preparations."

The red dots expanded into a thick, blobbish line extending over the entire mountain range.

"Our meteorological departments have already submitted their forecasts for wind patterns following the completion of Operation Eden. The radiation will spare the heart of our nation," he continued, as Nord Belka was shaded in gold on the map.

As I listened in, I realized that this was what historians referred to as the banality of evil. I could easily imagine armies of professional soldiers trained to fight represented as symbols on a map...but this...

"But more than that, we will erect an eternal wall against the enemies of our sacred land." the general proudly concluded. "And because our Southern counterparts refuse to fight, we will leave them to the Osean dogs as they deserve."

...this was the intentional slaughter of innocents, the permanent disfigurement of the world. All boiled down to shapes and dots and treated like just another event on a planner.

"You have all been chosen because you have the moral integrity to carry out this mission, _an integrity that puts you above most of humanity itself!_" Despite the phrase, Strossen's voice had whipped the crowd into an almost animal frenzy. "You will all be remembered for the rebirth of our land, you few, you proud, _you sons of Belka!_"

The standing ovation that followed had to have lasted at least two minutes, interrupted only by a very enthusiastic rendition of the Belkan national anthem. In that time I had slumped against the wall of the emergency exit hallway and failed to stop myself from crying.

We had left our nuclear arsenal to gather dust after the secessions. The original planners of Operation Pendragon had designated Excalibur as a defensive weapon because the range of its beam barely extended into Ustio, and that was years before anyone saw its asteroid-destroying potential. Unfortunately, the Nationalists clearly had no qualms about redefining what it meant to "defend" their country. And with Excalibur gone, they believed there was no other option left.

By picking Luftwaffe pilots instead of BVK, they could justify the whole thing as proof of the armed forces' continued loyalty in the face of the South's demilitarization. It was a grand plan to rally whoever had the will to go out and fight to the death, and it required an apocalyptic kind of insanity for anyone to think it could be executed, let alone work.

Strossen and his collaborators clearly possessed that insanity, and they were hellbent on carrying this plan out to the end.

I wanted to object. To say something, anything. But my conscience was already working its hardest to prevent me from revealing that I was in the auditorium at all.

I had to get to an exit. If I could have left before the applause died down and gotten away from the building without anybody noticing...no. I would still carry that horrific knowledge with me, and I wouldn't know what to do with it.

I started to turn away as the standing ovation faded and Strossen prepared to deliver his closing statements. I couldn't lose this opportunity now.

"Gruppenfuhrer Strossen, I cannot take part in a mission that will result in the genocide of our people."

I stopped again. That wasn't my voice, nor was it Strossen's.

One pilot had stood up amidst the crowd and broke the silence with his objection. Although shorter than average and a bit round about the waist, everybody seemed to pay attention to him as if he were a teacher.

"Colonel, Operation Eden will be carried out for the sole purpose of saving our great nation!" the Gruppenfuhrer replied defiantly. The way he glared at the Colonel indicated he was more than just an average pilot.

Colonel Wolfgang Buchner, also known as Huckebein the Raven, was another of the Luftwaffe's legendary birds. His technique involved hovering around the close edge of a dogfight, before diving in for a kill from trajectories spotted only with an eagle eye. Few ever saw his plane coming, but when they did, their fingers may as well have gone for the eject buttons.

Outside of his plane, his ground crews nicknamed him 'Pinguine' for obvious physical reasons. Indeed, both names were derived from his rather prominent nose. But he was also quite fond of jokes, so he didn't mind either name.

Yet the way he returned the defiant gaze at General Strossen belay his other nature. Although patriotic and a veteran of the Expansion War, he loathed the change in government. To him, the fascists and their paramilitary thugs had twisted the spirit of Belkan nationalism for their own gain. This disdain, which was more vocal than most that it often blocked him from promotion, now boiled over in front of the assembled pilots and BVK officers in attendance.

"I love my country as much as you do, Herr General, and I have fought proudly to defend it from the Coalition. But the suggestion that the only way to save our country by sealing half of it off with radiation is simply insane!"

"This is a war for our very existence, Colonel. Sacrifices must be made."

"Dying in battle for the principles we hold is sacrifice. Using our soldiers and countrymen as fodder for a nuclear device is slaughter."

All the expected detonation zones were located over positions still held by our forces. But it would not make a difference if the Allies ended up at a ground zero.

"If we do not commit Operation Eden, all our sacrifice, noble or not, will have been for absolutely nothing." It was then that Strossen's tone started to turn a depraved tone of hysterical. "Colonel Buchner, your objections are nothing less than madness...sabotage, _TREASON!_"

"What if Operation Eden is completed? What if that doesn't stop the Allies?"

Strossen quickly calmed himself. "It will succeed and Belka will not fall. And if you refuse to take part in it, I will make sure you will have no part in our efforts from this point on."

"Then I will not take part in it."

"Very well then." Strossen then pointed a gloved finger at a BVK officer in the aisles, "_Oberschutze_, detain this traitor. We will deal with him once Operation Eden is over."

A number of paramilitary guards immediately made their way through the rows and quickly restrained Buchner. The Colonel didn't resist, and the crowds cheered and jeered the arrest as the paramilitaries started heading in my direction. I hesitated to run. I didn't know if they had someone at the exit waiting for them. But I didn't want to accept against the damning odds that I was already doomed.

At least, it seemed, until his eyes met mine. I think, in that moment, he knew I was there, and that if he could not get the word out it seemed he wanted me to.

I didn't want to, not then. But the one thing it did inspire me to do, at long last, was try to escape. Without another word I turned tail and dashed for the exit, wanting to leave the fanatics to their own devices.

They had probably kept this exit open to bring out the objectors without anyone else noticing. The group of pilots that I saw leaving must've been the "chaff" that Strossen allowed to leave without stains on their honor.

As I opened the door I realized too late that I didn't close the door behind me on my way in, and found myself face to face with a pair of heavily-built BVK agents.

"OH GOD-" I shouted, before both of them tackled me to the ground and restrained me, one of them sliding a black plastic bag over my head.

They didn't say a word as they pulled me back onto my feet by my hair and shoulders and led me around the buildings and down what felt like a maze of passages to the detention blocks. Their route already seemed to have been planned out - even rehearsed - just so the three of us could avoid being noticed.

I took a great gasp of air as they removed the bag from my head and pushed me into an empty cell, locking the door behind them. I tripped from the lack of oxygen, managing to land partially on the mattress, my lower body kneeling on the floor as I tried to catch my breath. At this point, most people would have lunged back at the bars and started begging for their freedom. But it seemed I had already passed that phase and resigned myself to my fate. It would have been useless to try to resist it at this point.

Yet before I even caught my breath, I let that sadness that I held back listening to the conference loose while clinging to the mattress in the detention cell.

We all took part in 'nuclear readiness' drills since basic training at the academy, but even at that point most of us had resigned the actual possibility of nuclear annihilation to post-apocalyptic fantasy comics. I never dreamed that we would use nuclear weapons as part of a battle plan, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I wanted to believe this was all still a very bad dream. I buried my head in the mattress' small pillow and held my breath, hoping that I would wake up back in the barracks or even on the flight from Heierlark. If I were to somehow realize this wasn't a dream, I even hoped I would suffocate myself. Apart from the guards, I seemed to be the only one in the cells, so at least there was nobody to share my predicament.

Survival instinct kicked in eventually, and I looked up from the pillow, gasping for breath again only to find myself back in my cell. This time, however, the world seemed to flash red with alarms.

And the grunts were unlocking the cell door.

I took a few deep breaths as I got up and slowly, shakily made my way to the door. Maybe the Allies were en route to bomb Neu Eisendorf or a city nearby, and my intrusion would be forgotten in the confusion as we scrambled to action.

All such possibilities vanished when a BVK officer suddenly appeared at the doorway, stopping me in my tracks.

"_Leutnant_ Anne Zweig?" the officer began, with a tone as sharp as a knife.

He was about my age, with an Olympian's athletic build. The insignia he wore indicated that he probably stamped quite a few faces into the pavement over the last three years to get there, and after gaining _Scharfuhrer_'s rank had his own brigade stomp quite a few more faces into the pavement to get to where he was now.

"Sir...what's...what's going on?" I asked feebly.

"I need you to come with me," he replied without delay.

"I...I..." I couldn't come up with an excuse.

"Just do as I say," the officer interrupted, accenting his words by having those same two grunts move to my sides yet again.

The little voice in my head now went silent. I failed to heed its warnings...and now, after giving me time to stew over, I was about to suffer the consequences.

But he didn't lead me to an interrogation room or to a waiting military police vehicle. Instead he led me upstairs to an empty MP meeting room. The room was well-insulated from the alarm outside apart from the large venetian-blinded window that dominated one side of the room. He instructed me to have a seat at one end of the large, round table in the middle of the room, while he sat at the other.

The first thing he did was take off his hat and place it on the table. His two goons took up their posts outside the only door into the room.

"I...I don't know why I've been brought here though-" I sputtered, about the thinnest lie I can ever remember telling.

The paramilitary man did not hesistate to getting down to the matter at hand.  
"Zweig, I saw you at the briefing for Operation Eden."

I hung my head in shame. Deep down I had known he'd already figured that out.

"God...I just...but the..." If I weren't already sitting, I would have a hard time standing on my own feet.

"This is a very serious breach of security, and I take it that you know what the consequences are."

There would be no court martial, maybe a show trial at the most to extract some insult out of injury. The Korps had found ways of making people disappear if anyone crossed them, even from within their own ranks. After all, they also ran the country's secret police. Nobody would know I was even here, or that I was even moved to the base in the first place.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed, "I'm just-"

"I can understand how the magnitude of the operation must shock you. It's why we didn't select you in the first place. Still, I also know you are one of our best and most loyal pilots. You have been aching to redeem yourself for your humiliation over Valais."

"But I..."

The officer leaned toward me, with a devilish smirk on his face. _"I would like to offer you that chance."_

I thought I couldn't be surprised any more than I had been today. But I couldn't be any less relieved either, as the officer stood up and made his way to the giant window behind him.

"Colonel Buchner, whom you no doubt witnessed objecting to Operation Eden, escaped our custody while you were detained. He managed to steal a plane and escape with it. The Air Force are already sending Schwarze Squadron after him."

I gulped. Schwarze were the squadron assigned specifically to shooting down deserters. And with the Oseans and mercenaries advancing rapidly on our borders, many of the younger pilots feared the worst and fled for their lives...right into the trajectories of their missiles.

"Why did...you retrieve me then?"

"We have received reports that indicate he is heading toward a major air battle in Strategic Airspace B7R to try to lose us. And we _don't_ want Schwarze to get him."

"Wait, you don't?" Surely that wouldn't have been as easy as it sounded.

"Of course not. As much as he is a traitor, we do not want him shot down by a _Yuktobanian,_" the commandant said with a crafty smirk. Schwarze's lead Dominic Zubov was a mercenary himself, headhunted from Yuktobania's many bloody border conflicts and put in a squadron whose feared reputation would hide - or perhaps, complement - his nation of origin from the more purity-obsessed politicians.

"We want your squadron to shoot him down," he then added. Suddenly, things started to make sense. They wanted me to shoot him down to ensure I wouldn't do the same thing he did. But there was one problem to that logic.

"I'm...here because they removed me from Weiss."

Rather than threaten me with a court martial, he deceptively sweetened the deal.

"We know. As of a few minutes ago you have been assigned to the 6th Air Division, 4th Tactical Fighter Squadron 'Grabacr.' Your flight leader will be Captain Ashley Bernitz. If you can't personally shoot him down yourself," he paused, clearly noting my shaky state, "make sure the kill is verified to the other members of the squadron."

I felt relieved, and at the same time knew this was a punishment.

Even before the war began, the BVK had intentions on creating their own special divisions within the different branches of the military. They did so by convincing the commanders of these branches to either make a new one for them, or if the commanders were not so welcoming to that idea, take over one in their place. Grabacr was one of the latter, a former training wing converted to one of their special squadrons. Unlike the land forces' over-eager recruits, the BVK were much more meticulous in prioritizing experience as well as loyalty for their representatives in the air, as much as these squadrons didn't have the kill tallies of veterans like Indigo or Silber.

But they were quickly gaining a reputation for being ruthless and above all merciless in hunting down their targets, shooting down even disabled planes as mercenaries would. The only real difference was that they seemed to have a twisted sense of what they did being immutably right. Which somehow gave sense to the hushed rumors that the Demon Lord was Bernitz' evil twin for fighting _against_ Belka...or long-lost siblings, depending on how much that particular rumormonger hated the Korps.

Thus was my punishment. They were to be my caretakers, and my minders for this test of loyalty.

If I completed this mission, I could get off without any black marks to my record and perhaps end up under the Korps' wing literally AND figuratively for the duration. But that would also make me implicit - if not _com_plicit - in nuclear genocide.

If I didn't, then I probably would not expect to survive the next 24 hours.

So if I had to explain why I did what I did next, I would say that I _never_ thought of myself as some kind of superhero. Even today I know it was a very, very, _very_ cowardly thing to do, though every now and then I wonder if dying without my dignity as a traitor would really have changed anything for the better.

"Th- ...thank you, sir." I stood up and hastily saluted, not knowing what other reaction to give. "I'm..."

"You should be thankful that _my_ boys were the only ones that noticed you and not some of Strossen's other grunts. If the kill is verified to Grabacr, then I'll see what I can do about clearing you," the officer said as he stood up and made his way past me toward the door. "If Huckebein escapes, well...I think you should have an idea of the consequences."

He put a hand on my shoulder as he passed me. His touch felt as cold as death.

"Your squadron is almost getting ready to scramble, I suggest you get over to the hangar...oh, about right now. Dismissed," he said, giving an evil chuckle as he and his grunts left the room.

I spent the next few minutes in that office, sitting there completely stunned at everything I had just gotten into. My bloodshot eyes had finally started adjusting to the bright morning light.

When I arrived in Neu Eisendorf, I thought my redeployment would be a cut-and-shut affair. Hell, I was smiling during my flight here, hoping I would get sent back to Ustio to face off with the Demon Lord again.

As I shakily got up and left to prepare for my next sortie, I realized that amidst everything I had gotten myself into was the possibility that I would face the Demon Lord again. He certainly wouldn't be able to resist joining a battle of this magnitude if it would mean more pay. On the other hand, it was at that moment I began to regret pursuing this vendetta as passionately as I did. Was it worth it to give this much just for one more crack at the great Ustian ace?

After all, they always told me to be careful what I wished for.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	6. Grabacr Four

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them.

* * *

_

**On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)**  
**Chapter 4**

**Neu Eisendorf AFB, Belka**  
**28 May 1995**  
**1803 hrs.**

Sensory deprivation was supposed to be a method of torture. Right now, I engaged in it for catharsis.

I was alone in the shower stalls of the barracks, the events of the day far behind me but the consequences bearing on me dead ahead. I started to lose track of time after I stepped in here, removed my towel and just let the water drench me from the nozzle.

The icy water finally seemed to tame the emotional roller-coaster I had gone through in the past 10 hours. The psychologists often wrote entire journals about the cycles of denial, anger, bargaining and depression, but it wasn't my own mortality I had to accept. No, I accepted that when I knew that I would join a profession where I had to deliberately risk my life.

The only thing left to do was to accept the consequences of my own actions and deal with the turbulence that lay ahead.

* * *

**Several Hours Earlier**

My helmet felt like a cannonball as I carried it with me onto the tarmac. It was supposed to be a relatively cool morning, but I felt like my g-suit cooked me alive as I made my way across the parking ramps to the Grabacr hangar. They hadn't removed my Weiss Squadron patch, probably because they had never gotten around to it on such short notice, or figured I wasn't going to need it where I feared I was going this morning.

Although the BVK officer didn't send his thugs to escort me, it felt as he may have simply held a service pistol to the back of my head. Huckebein was already in the air, and I could not waste any time if I wanted to catch him before he fled over the border to Ustio.

I took a deep breath as I stepped into the hangar, its air conditioned air gracing my shoulders like I passed through a curtain. Four Su-47 Berkuts were parked in this hangar, two to either side of me. With the alarm, the hangar was abuzz (no pun intended) with the Luftwaffe staff's activity.

Yet it didn't seem odd in any way that the crew in this particular hangar performed their duties calmly, as if we _weren't_ scrambling to intercept something. That was probably due to the fact that all the activity in here seemed to revolve around one person, specifically the pilot performing a quick walk-around of the one numbered '000' to my left.

Captain Ashley Bernitz was the BVK's poster boy for the Luftwaffe by most measures. Tall and handsome, his commanding presence was felt by everyone in the hangar from his wingmen down to the mechanics and fuel truck drivers. An ace graduate of the academy, he opted to go into a 'special training squadron' to further enhance his technique, and as a result even defeated his teacher in mock combat. A man of calm ritual, rumors abounded that he kept a monthly planner organized down to the minute.

As such, he was also a fanatic by most measures, probably more of Colonel Buchner's evil twin than the Demon Lord's. As one of the BVK recruits pulled directly from the armed forces instead of the streets or universities, he brought with him more experience - and eagerness to do battle against the 'enemies of the holy land' - than the average grunt. This was easily reflected in his kill record, which already surpassed those his older contemporaries racked up during this conflict. More reliable than the propaganda was the fact that he especially tended to delve into almost genocidal tirades against these 'enemies.'

So it actually surprised me when he greeted me with a friendly smile as if he wasn't even bothered by the alarm.

"Ah, they finally sent me a wingman," he said, extending his hand to shake mine, "Or wing_woman_, whatever the term is these days."

"_Oberleutnant_ Annette Zweig," I replied, "8th Air Division, 7th Fighter Wing."

"The Nightingale of Weiss Squadron," Bernitz interjected, firmly shaking my hand, "Good to meet you. Captain Ashley Bernitz."

In spite of his outward friendliness, his voice still sounded cold as was somehow expected of a BVK pilot. I tried not to let that disturb me any more than I already was.

"What's the matter, _Oberleutnant_? You look like you've seen a ghost," he added with a smirk as he let go of my hand.

I flinched at how close his guess was to the Demon Lord.

"Nonstop sorties, not enough sleep." Unlike my previous excuse to my interrogating officer, I was only half-lying. "Just as I finally get some shuteye, the alarm goes off."

"Well, if they're sending a regular to help me out then they must see something very special in you." he quipped, "Especially since none of my other wingmen are here, so you're gonna have to sleep later."

"Where is everyone else, anyway?" I asked, looking around. Apart from me and Bernitz, none of the BVK crewmen in the hangar wore g-suits.

"They aren't. The Oseans hit the hangars after me and my wingman scrambled," he snarled, casting a glare at the other aircraft on the hangar. "The paint still isn't dry on the replacements. You'll be flying his old craft," he added, pointing to the one pointed opposite the hangar to his.

The planes were the newest additions to the Luftwaffe's inventory, their prototypes developed by Grunder jointly with the Yuktobanians before the Nationalists decided to seize its production for themselves. All of the Berkuts were painted matte black, with the Grabacr snake painted onto the rear stabilizers along with the Luftwaffe triangle fin flash. Bernitz flew the number '000' he was inspecting when I came in. Directly under the canopy were several miniature decals of the Ustian, Osean and even a pair of Sapino roundels, indicating his growing kill score.

The one I would be flying had a similar paint scheme. However, the kill decals as well as the pilot's name had been hastily painted over. The light glinting on the fuselage seemed to indicate that the paint wasn't even dry.

What caught my attention the most, however, was the giant '004' marked near the nose.

"Oh, right. **Unlucky** Number 4," he said as if suddenly remembering it, "A shame, I've never had a steady pilot in that plane since we were formed."

"Really? Why?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Loyalty, Zweig," he replied before he turned to climb into Triple-Zero's cockpit, "Everyone I've had in Double-Oh-Four displayed, how do you call it, _reservations_ about their duty. My last pilot expressed quite a few doubts about our nation's ability to win on the way here. And we have to accept sacrifices."

I didn't want to draw that conversation out any more than it should. It was disturbing enough that he didn't seem at all affected by the loss of his wingmen. "That's not good," I replied.

"Anyway, Nachtigall, we've got a traitor to shoot down," Bernitz announced as he put his helmet on, "There's no time to waste."

With that, I strapped my helmet on and climbed into the cockpit of 004, buckling the safety belts and attaching my respirator. Bernitz had already started his craft and began taxiing it out of the hangar to the runway. I followed once he was clear of the front door, steeling myself for the mission ahead. I was shivering in my flight suit as I watched his plane take off to my side before mine reached the runway.

"Nachtigall, you are cleared for takeoff," the control tower squawked.

Almost two miles of runway spread out before me. Beyond that was the horizon, and my mission.

I took a slow, deep breath, and pushed forward on the throttle.

I had always felt a sort of adrenalin rush as the G-forces pushed me back into my seat during takeoff. I didn't feel any of that today, replaced by a quivering need to make sure this job went down the way the BVK wanted to. Although we flew the most up-to-date planes in the Luftwaffe's stock, even Huckebein would know that he had as much chance of being shot down by the Allies then he did with us.

Neu Eisendorf hadn't even disappeared over the horizon beyond our flight before their control tower relayed a message.

"This is Northeast Air Command," came a voice over the radio as my landing gear left the ground, "We have an AWACS in B7R, callsign Orion. He'll try to keep you updated on Colonel Buchner's position, it's a real furball over there."

"Copy Northeast," Bernitz replied, "Hopefully he'll be tied up until we get there."

We had kept our planes' thrust just above minimum, in any event Air Command notified us that it would be more than enough to start catching up with him.

In the meantime, our radio kept going off non-stop with frantic updates about a battle involving more than one hundred planes...but as we got closer and climbed over the northern side of the Round Table, it got quieter and quieter.

The scenery's gradual change was a refreshing distraction once I got into formation beside Captain Bernitz, which seemed all right with him since he didn't seem in the mood for conversation. The forests that lined the northeast gave way to large, snowy mountains, which then flattened out to redder canyon rock.

After that, there was only the giant ridge that marked the very edge of the round table.

* * *

**Belka Priority One Strategic Airspace B7R  
****1259 hrs.**

The sky over B7R was almost completely overcast, but the cloud cover wasn't thick enough for much more than a drizzle. Eerily enough, my cockpit was almost completely silent save for the sound of our engines in formation.

The ridge that formed B7R's border was the point of no return. Once I crossed it, the only things that mattered were my mission, my team, and my own survival.

"This is AWACS Orion," came a voice over our radio, "Grabacr flight, do you read? Welcome to the Round Table."

Had I not been part of the lead flight into the Round Table at the time, I would have still been distracted, waiting for them to call on Weiss Squadron. The voice perked me to attention, and I took a deep breath as I scanned the skies ahead. I could just see the faint flashes and black lines that indicated the dogfight wasn't getting any less fierce as we got closer.

"This is Grabacr 1," Bernitz replied, "We read you loud and clear. What's the situation?"

"The Allies currently have the upper hand on our fighters," Orion explained, clearly worried. "Colonel Buchner arrived in B7R about 10 minutes ago but he's tied up trying to convince the Allies not to shoot at him. He's at vector 1-6-3 at about 15 miles. I can get him on your frequency."

"Not necessary. What about Schwarze Squadron?"

"The bad news is that they're already here."

"What's the good news?" Bernitz sounded as if he were glaring Orion's radio operator down in person.

"The good news, if you could call it that, is that they're all focused on the Demon Lord of Ustio. His squadron turned the battle in their favor. Grau Wespe is also here out of Weilstadt but they're staying out of Schwarze's way with the Allied reinforcements."

My entire body seemed to jolt itself out of its fear and into an alert state as if I were already in the middle of the dogfight.

Schwarze had no idea what they were up against. They knew the tactics of the deserters, after all they were practically trained in the same classrooms save for the Yuktobanian-born Zubov. But the Demon Lord was different. A mercenary did not attain legendary status without coming up with a style all his own.

"Good. Looks like we have the traitor all to ourselves."

"You'd better hurry though. The Demon Lord is chewing up Schwarze, and it looks like this battle might be over soon."

"We're here, aren't we?" Bernitz snarled, "This battle won't be over until the traitor is dead or we die trying."

I almost flinched at how accurate he was given that he really didn't know why I had been assigned to his squadron.

"Right. I'm updating your IFF now, Colonel Buchner is hostile. Hopefully you can pick Huckebein out from the Allied reinforcements."

My viewfinder lit up with a cluster of more than a dozen planes. I switched to a shorter-range view to pick them out individually.

"There's the traitor," Bernitz replied, as my IFF lit up a plane fleeing as fast as it could across our line of sight. The Berkut was new enough that its HUD could even identify the model we were chasing.

Of all the planes that Huckebein could have made off with in Neu Eisendorf, he stole a MiG-21. The Luftwaffe had captured airfields full of these Yuktobanian relics from the eastern air forces during the Expansion War. Those that we hadn't sold off to the armies fighting off the Yuktobanians in the 1980s were kept for use by aggressor squadrons.

But we weren't taking any chances. Sure, the MiG-21 was not as heavily-armed as our Berkuts, and they certainly couldn't even outrun the almost equally-aged MiG-31s of Schwarze. Huckebein, however, had more flight hours than both Bernitz and I combined. And he was practically weaned in fighters from his era, which meant he not only knew how to start one up out of memory alone, he also knew how to push them to their very limits.

"I'll go after the traitor," Bernitz replied. "Nachtigall, shoot down anyone that tries to stop us."

"Roger."

"And I mean _shoot down_. Aim for the cockpit if you have to. Don't let any disabled planes get back to their base. Copy?"

I took a deep breath. I had only one choice. "...copy."

"Good. Grabacr Squadron, engage."

"Roger. Grabacr 2, engaging," I said, finally betraying out my lack of enthusiasm.

"No need to call yourself that on my flight, Nachtigall," Bernitz added reassuringly, "Not unless they officially make you my wingman."

A pair of F/A-18s slid into my field of vision, appearing to make their 'rounds' between Huckebein and us.

"Right. I got these two," I replied, swiftly breaking formation to take on the two Hornets. Their formation split into two as I approached.

I went for the one on the left, as it broke away faster. Getting rid of the faster one would at least make the other one easier...but as I increased thrust to match, my Berkut almost overshot him. He broke into a side loop to evade me, and as I went in to pursue him my plane almost overcorrected itself. The controls felt much lighter than the F-16s I flew for Weiss Squadron, which meant I could maneuver in a dogfight with less effort.

I wondered if they assigned me to such a squadron with such high-tech aircraft out of coincidence. The BVK often tried but failed to get the newest and best equipment to their own people first. Either way, I had to be thankful that I had the opportunity to use these, if only because it would make it quicker to get my mission over with and out of my mind. It certainly made locking onto that Hornet easier, and destroying it with one of the Berkut's short-range Adder missiles even more so.

"Splash one, Nachtigall," Orion recorded as the Hornet spun out of control and slammed right into the Round Table, "Good to see you're keeping your skills up."

I didn't have time to respond, as my missile warning indicators started to blink on my HUD. The downed Hornet's partner was obviously out to get me.

"Is that you, Ashley?" came a voice over the radio. "The Korps sure are fast."

"Huckebein, you traitor," was Bernitz' only response. I smirked to myself as I deployed the air brake into a tight loop. My organs seemed to shift inside my torso as the Berkut enthusiastically did so. My sudden actions also seemed to have surprised the Hornet's pilot, as he had to pull into an even wider turning radius to compensate. I squinted at my HUD as the sun passed over the cockpit from the maneuver. A green arrow pointed me in the Hornet's general direction, and soon the tables were turned.

"You didn't bring your whole team with you today," Huckebein replied, almost taunting. He didn't even seem disturbed with the fact that he had all eight Schwarze fighters sent after him, let alone two Grabacr. Then again, he knew he faced long odds when he decided to break out of detention.

"I don't need **four** fighters to take down **one** traitor," Bernitz scowled, "And certainly not a goddamn Slav and his thugs."

"Did they tell you **why** I was a traitor?" Huckebein replied.

The only reply he got was silence, enabling me to pull up onto the tail of the other Hornet.

"Figures. The Gray Men don't tell their goons why they're sniffing out their targets," Huckebein replied, with an almost fatherly exasperation. "They just give you a name and you don't get any second thoughts about flying after them."

Rather than reporting to High Command, the BVK instead reported to a group of individuals you might be familiar with as the Grey Men.

Officially that referred to the paramilitary unit's central command along with their founder, Chancellor Drexler.

But to many of us, they also included the group of old nobility, business tycoons and die-hard politicians instrumental in getting the Nationalists into power. With their influence, they practically ran every possible outlet for propaganda. Unlike other dictatorships, we didn't need a state-owned propaganda press when all of the biggest private outlets agreed that Belka itself was collapsing from its follies into "Federation." None of the other parties from the neo-Marxist Ralds to the Federal Democrats stood a chance.

Of course, they weren't some kind of strange, secret conspiracy...at least not then. Sure, nobody really knew if Drexler was their leader or their mouthpiece. But apart from their little meetings, their public lives matched their personalities to a T. Openly and boastfully loyal to the state, and all with membership in the National Workers' Party.

In fact, their name originally came from the fact that all of them were at least 50 years old.

But through their influence they recruited thousands of my contemporaries to serve as the "guardians of the nation" under the party's authority, supervised by bitter veterans of the Expansion War. Their hormones and desire to do something to help their country get back on their feet were all they possessed, and the industries they owned would supply them and the army with the tools they needed to enforce their ideology upon the populace and Belka's neighbors.

"I don't need '_second thoughts_' to know you're a traitor," Bernitz snarled back. Their bitter argument was almost entertaining were it not for the stakes we were playing against. "Doubt leads to treason."

At least it helped me somehow concentrate my aim, and my HUD lit up a bright red square to indicate a missile lock.

"Second thoughts and doubt are what makes us _human_, Ashley," Huckebein continued. "Sounds to me like your obsession with becoming some kind of _superman_ is mkaing you you quite the opposite."

"You...you-" The sound of the other F/A-18 exploding from the impact of another of my Berkut's Adder missiles fortunately cut out whatever Bernitz said next.

I dived to avoid the explosion, and quickly scanned my radar for my next target. Picking the nearest dot, I rebounded back up and over the ridges to find an F-15C lit up on my HUD just wrapping up a kill. Without any objection from my flight lead - directed at me, anyway - I decided to pursue. Maybe it was the familiarity of the plane's model, but unlike the two Hornets I felt as if this plane was drawing me closer to it, as if luring me. The pilot definitely noticed me as I got closer, and immediately pulled into a loop that I followed almost reflexively.

The sun lit up the F-15's silhouette as it pulled into the loop, and suddenly I knew why I was drawn into it.

My Berkut had caught up to the all too familiar blue-winged craft of the Demon Lord of Ustio.

After two months and a nuclear conspiracy, I finally gained the opportunity to shoot him down. Suddenly, my mission and everything else became unimportant as I began to chase him down.

This was why they called it the Round Table, after all. The only objective up here was to survive.

I could practically see the Ustio Air Force triangle on his wings. My missile lock went off for split-seconds at a time, not nearly long enough to fire off any of the Berkut's missiles without giving him time to evade. My HUD lit up with the cannon aiming reticule, indicating I was almost too close. All I had to do was align it with his fuselage long enough to fire and hope my reflexes were quick enough to do the rest. It was much easier to hope than aim though.

The G-forces slowly crushing body into a pulp as the Berkut effortlessly matched the Eagle's maneuver didn't even seem to hurt through the adrenalin-charged concentration I put into keeping up with him.

The reticule wobbled and spasmed trying to even touch the Demon Lord's craft as we leveled off after another a sudden J-turn. The Eagle's exhaust ports almost hypnotized me as my Berkut got closer and closer.

My finger slid down to the cannon trigger. There was nothing that could break my concentration now.

Almost nothing, anyway.

"Goddammit, I've got someone on my six. Nachtigall, finish him off!" Bernitz suddenly shouted over the radio, as Huckebein's MiG screamed below me and past my two o'clock. I turned just a moment to face the fleeing MiG...and when I turned back, the Demon Lord was gone. My hesitation allowed him to escape, but at that moment, it seemed like he just vanished into thin air as if I chased an illusion.

I let out an angry cry as I changed my course and directed my plane toward the fleeing MiG. At that moment I felt my first real hatred toward Buchner, not for any ideology, but from distracting me from the opportunity I had dragged myself into this conspiracy to earn. Not that he didn't make it easy to catch up, but the rush from chasing the Demon Lord lingered just enough for me to keep up with him easier.

"So Ashley managed to recruit the Nightingale," Huckebein began.

"Nachtigall," Bernitz then suddenly said, his voice obscured by the action going on outside, "Don't let him toy with you."

"How about you, Oberleutnant Zweig? Did they tell _you_ why I was a traitor either?" he asked.

I hesitated just that long enough that I had to overcorrect. Surely he wouldn't have known. Surely the moment he looked toward that exit in the auditorium...

"N-no..." I stuttered, "I'm just going to shoot you down."

"Would you shoot me down if it meant one more nuclear bomb dropped on your own country?"

"Stop it..." I said through a clenched jaw, reminded of the consequences of my failure, "Stop it now!"

"He's playing mind games with you," Bernitz replied, "He's crafty like that."

"Did you know I was in the same squadron with Bernitz?" Huckebein asked.

"No...no, you didn't tell me that," I said, suddenly as curious as I was angry. This momentary lapse enabled him to gain some distance between me, and it seemed like the high G-forces were finally starting to have some effect.

"Grabacr weren't always the BVK's trained attack dogs," he explained, pulling the MiG upward to create a rolling scissors, "Least not while I was leading it."

"Then how come I'd never heard of you with Grabacr?"

"Because it wasn't even called Grabacr then," he replied, sounding angry, "It was one of the special training squadrons for Academy and Kellerman graduates."

I vaguely remembered hearing of these squadrons before I graduated. Although I managed to score just high enough to qualify, I chose to be directly assigned to a combat squadron straight out of the Academy as I didn't really see what value these specialized squadrons had to offer. But it was Colonel Buchner's connection to these training squadrons that caused me to make a mental connection I didn't notice before.

"The BVK took it over and renamed it Grabacr because they wanted a more vicious squadron of young pilots in their image," he continued, his flight path made a little more predictable due to the conversation, "and I left because I knew I would never be ruthless enough for them."

As my Berkut reached the apex of the rolling maneuver, I could just see Bernitz' craft turning the tables and chasing down the bandit that had chased him. From its silhouette, the F-14 would soon be mincemeat.

"That's why Bernitz especially hates you?"

"Ashley was my brightest pupil," he said regretfully, "Too bad his hatred for the 'inferior' blinded him."

"Shoot him down now, or I'll shoot the both of you down myself!" Bernitz shouted.

My entire spinal column froze up at that order, my eyes nearly bugging out. I shook my head and, fortunately enough, I could still stay on Huckebein's tail.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," I told him, "I have to do this."

"Don't apologize to him!" Bernitz interjected, he's a traitor!"

"I understand, Nightingale. I hope you'll do the right thing in the end," Buchner replied, surprising me. "Of course, I won't insult your honor by going down without a fight."

With that, Huckebein suddenly pulled into a upward spiral. I moved to match him, but that meant the two of us were now climbing quite steeply.

The MiG was able to maneuver from side to side, but my Berkut more than kept up for its size. The problem was I had been more used to Weiss Squadron's "slower" F-16s, and the extra G-forces from the Berkut's ultra-responsiveness were starting to overwhelm my adrenalin as the gun reticule appeared on my HUD to indicate my cannons were in range. I couldn't keep up these extreme maneuvers forever.

The instant the reticule's center dot touched the Fishbed, I squeezed the trigger like I was trying to strangle it to death. Muffled thumps echoed into the Berkut's cockpit as the equipped cannon churned out 30mm shells at the much smaller craft. Smoke began to pour where the shells had impacted the fuselage close to the engine.

And then, it seemed as if he had stopped fighting. He leveled the Fishbed out just above the gigantic ridge lining the Round Table. I pulled back on the throttle, and found myself almost flying in formation behind him.

It was as if he didn't want to fight anymore.

"Good flying, Anne," he said through the radio, "See you on the other side."

The entire cockpit seemed to lift out of the wounded MiG as Huckebein ejected, leaving a trail of smoke behind. The canopy of a Fishbed was attached directly to the ejection mechanism, creating a sort of pod to protect the pilot from the elements until the parachute deployed. The launch was also my unconscious cue to finish off his aircraft.

A short-range Archer missile dropped from my Berkut's hardpoint and raced toward its target. Its impact was enough to finally finish the MiG off, exploding into a fireball and plummeting into the bedrock of the Round Table. I pulled upward as soon as the missile fired to avoid getting caught in the explosion.

The moment of impact also suddenly broke me from my battle rush, as if awakened from an exhilarating dream.

"Splash Huckebein!" Orion announced, "Grabacr Team, that's mission accomplished."

I circled around the falling wreckage of Huckebein's plane, silently hoping to see a parachute somewhere. Maybe if he survived and somehow made it to Allied Lines they could authorize a bombing raid against Eisendorf or wherever the nuclear bombers were deployed from. He got a better view of the bases outlined on the map than me, he should know which ones they were.

But no, I couldn't see a parachute deploying. And this was B7R. Few people managed to find their way out of this place when the magnetic field that surround it rendered every compass useless. I wanted to keep circling, just to see if he was all right.

At least until my console started blinking with a missile lock warning.

It suddenly jolted me out of what seemed like an obsessive trance, and the first place I looked was my radar. A hostile blip showed up practically on top of me. My fingers fumbled about the control panel for the counter-measures.

But just as I reached the button, the entire control panel seemed to fall into shadow as the missile lock warnings stopped. I looked to the side only to find the source of this shadow filling me with a dreadful sense of deja vu.

The Demon Lord's F-15 loomed to my nine o'clock, blocking out the sun. I could see right into his cockpit from mine, and it looked as if he was staring right into my eyes from his helmet. It wasn't hard to imagine him smiling at me through the respirator attached to his helmet. Not that he needed me to see it.

He raised one hand in a mocking version of our army's salute before he banked away and pushed up to afterburners. I couldn't take my eyes off of his craft as he turned it away and raced off into the distance.

I shook my head. He could have killed me right then and there, but he didn't.

"You're the only two friendlies on my radar," came another AWACS order, " Recommend set course to zero-one-zero and RTB."

"Roger that," Bernitz replied, his chilly, rational voice returning now that the source of his anger had disappeared into B7R, "Our job is done here."

"What about the Demon Lord?" I asked.

"The Demon's as good as his name," Orion added regretfully, "While you two were busy with Huckebein, he and his wingmen shot down every last plane from Schwarze and Grau Wespe."

I gasped. Even after all that, he still managed to find time to pull up next to me and wave.

"We've still got lots of ammo and fuel left," I suddenly pleaded, "Can't we go after them?"

"Skip it, Nachtigall," Bernitz replied, "They'll lead us right into the Allied air defenses. The Demon Lord will be back. Just be patient. People like us don't go down easy."

I wanted to take his Freudian slip as solace.

The airwaves remained silent for the rest of the trip. Neither of us were in the mood to say anything. Not that there wasn't anything to say at all this time.

Rather than watch the scenery pass by, the return trip gave me time to think.

* * *

**Neu Eisendorf, Belka  
1745 hrs.**

I let out a fearful sigh the moment my landing gear hit the tarmac, letting the air brakes finish bringing the Berkut to a standstill. My hands trembled from fatigue as I guided the plane off the runway to park it by the hangar.

An eerie silence filled the cockpit as the Berkut's engines turned off. The base was no longer in a state of alarm, though fighters and transports kept landing or taking off after I used the runway. The Allies were getting close, and they needed every fighter in the air that they could muster.

The first person to greet me once my feet touched solid ground was none other than the BVK officer that had interrogated me earlier that morning. I noticed him stepping out of an MP SUV as I climbed out.

"What happened to the traitor?" the officer asked, his fists clenched as he stared into my eyes. "Is he dead?"

"I...I..." I couldn't find the words to say as I removed my helmet. But I didn't feel afraid of him anymore.

"Yes he is," came a voice from behind. I turned to find Bernitz removing his helmet to expose a cold, calculating face. "Zweig made the kill."

"You're joking. She took out the Raven?" I didn't know whether to be disgusted at the officer's condescension or further surprised at Bernitz' believing that Huckebein was dead.

"She took a little encouraging," he replied, clearly downplaying his threats, "But she got the job done." The Captain put a hand on my shoulder, giving a confident smile. I flinched the moment his hand landed on my shoulder, it felt like he could crush me or give me a science fiction stun pinch without effort.

The officer's face cringed in frustration. Not that I was in the mood to exact some _schadenfreude_ from it. The officer then waved an accusing finger at me.

"You're a very, _very_ lucky woman, Lieutenant Zweig," he muttered, taking deep breaths to hold in his anger, "Unfortunately, I'm required to be a man of my word. You're in the clear...for now. Dismissed." Without another word, he stormed back into his vehicle and drove off.

"In the clear? What is this about?" Bernitz suddenly asked suspiciously.

"Told a very bad joke about the Korps within his earshot," I said almost non-chalantly, my fear counter-balanced by his frustration and allowing me to come up with _something_ I could get away with saying. "He didn't like it and had me assigned here to help you."

"He probably did that to save his own pride," Bernitz replied with a smirk, "Ironic, because this mission wouldn't have been a success without you."

"Is that an offer to keep me on your wing?" I asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. If he was also flirting with me, he was doing a very bad job at it.

"Almost, but not quite," Bernitz said sternly.

"That's a shame..." I added, looking away and trying to be more relieved than disappointed.

"I would recommend you..." he added, much to my amazement, "But I'm afraid my superiors will have none of it unless you join the Korps first. I'll put in a good word with the Base Commander for wherever the regulars decide to transfer you in the meantime."

"I thought you _dismissed_ your other Number Fours because they were as shaky as I was earlier."

"Not necessarily," he replied, "They volunteered for my squadron full of pride but little substance. Yes, you're shaky, but at least you got things _done._ An iron will like that is only forged in fire."

I sighed forlornly. "I don't know. I just don't believe I did the right thing."

"I'm not surprised a 'regular' like yourself is full of doubt," Bernitz said with a condescension like a schoolteacher, "But deep down you're not like those dime-a-dozen thugs they hire for the street brigades. You and I, we get things done like the hardworking patriots in the government. _We can change things._"

"Oh...uh...thanks. And...uh...Captain Bernitz?" I asked just as I started to walk away, "Was it...true?"

"Was _what_ true?"

"What Huckebein said...are we going to use nuclear weapons?" I knew we were. But a part of me wanted to know if he knew it too.

Bernitz shrugged, looking quite puzzled. "You know he was just trying to mess with your head."

"But if we had to...would we use them?" I asked.

He came back with a confident, almost scripted answer that sounded more rational than it was.

"We're Belkans. We do whatever it takes to protect our sacred land," he said with a smile, "If it really came to that, I wouldn't hesitate to drop one on the Allied columns myself."

It was that same, sadistic, devilish smile that the BVK officer that assigned me to this mission gave me earlier. And when he put his hand on my shoulder just then, it felt exactly as cold as the officer's gloves. And I couldn't tell him the truth then, because that would put me back into jeopardy.

"Oh. Well...that's..."

"You shouldn't be so tense," Bernitz called out as I walked away, "It's not patriotic to waver in the face of the enemy!"

I didn't want to respond to it. At least not with a voice. I held up a hand to wave back - or dismiss it, I couldn't tell - as I made my way back to the locker room.

What started as a walk though turned into a jog as I began once again to dwell on the repercussions of what I had just done. And this time, without the BVK or Bernitz staring me down, it began to show in my emotions as well. By the time I walked through the door of the locker room, I had started breathing heavily. One of the base staff passed me just as I was about to open my locker.

"Oberleutnant Zweig?" she asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No. It's nothing..." I said, trying to hold back tears.

"Are you sure? You weren't at that meeting, were you? A lot of pilots here seemed really shaken up about that."

I nodded weakly. "Yeah..."

"Look, when you're feeling better, the base commander will be conducting the reassignments."

"Okay...sure," I said, nodding as I wrapped my towel around me and finished undressing.

"Don't worry," she said as she turned to leave, "I'm sure it was all just bluff and bluster, whatever they did back there."

By the time I reached the shower, I struggled to hold back tears.

I shot down Huckebein before he could escape. My mission from the BVK was complete as long as I kept silent about what happened.

But I knew inside that I had failed, not just my country but myself. I silenced a man that would have exposed a grand plan for nuclear annihilation for a chance, however fleeting, to settle a vendetta that now seemed so insignificantly petty. A chance that I missed my opportunity to exploit.

More than that, it felt like the Demon Lord didn't mock me when he flew wingtip-to-wingtip with me as much as he congratulated me. By cooperating with his plan and shooting down Huckebein I had sunk to his own level. Both of us were practically war criminals now, our hands practically caked with blood that would never be washed off. Yet with history written only by the winners, only one of us would end up judged in the end.

I stayed in the shower until I was sure my body had gone completely numb from the cold, only to step out having caught a bit of the sniffles.

I put a new uniform on, and walked out of the barracks ready to face this judgement...

...only to find what I thought then was a chance at redemption.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

_Author's Note: Yeah, my flight terminology sucks. When I started writing this I figured I could use Grabacr 1 as we've always known him. Then the "conversations" started to develop and I realize that someone as coldly hateful in 2010 would probably have been a little less so in 1995 when they thought they were winning._


	7. Engel Two Three

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them. Gunther Heimeroth character by Pokefanficwriter92.  


* * *

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**On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)**  
**Chapter 5**

_"You did not bear the shame. You resisted. You bestowed an eternally vigilant symbol of change by sacrificing your impassioned lives for freedom, justice and honor." - Gedenkstätte Deutscher Widerstand (German Resistance Memorial)_

By the end of May, most of South Belka's largest cities and towns declared themselves demilitarized and peacefully surrendered to the advancing Allies. The retreating Belkan Army was only able to reorganize in the Waldreich mountains, where they prepared for the final defense of Nord Belka using the natural barrier to their advantage.

Emboldened by the "people of Belka's resolve to see their country freed of tyranny," quoting the same (then-Lieutenant General) Paul Howell that would lead Osean troops into Yuktobania 15 years later, the Allies began to escalate their tactics in hopes of forcing the more conservative northern Belkan establishment to follow South Belka's lead. Precision bombing gave way to full-scale carpetbombing. Over-ambitious troops from the Yuktobanian-supported eastern republics also began to execute captured soldiers.

Much of the National Workers' Party leadership had drastically similar ideas. Knowing that the Army would eventually try to seek a ceasefire, they set about preparing for their own last stand. They intended to fight fire with fire, escalation with escalation. They began to actively persecute anyone of non-Belkan descent within their own borders, imprisoning and even executing them.

These efforts only further deepened the discontent many already felt with the government, both in civilian and military circles. But it was only on the 6th of June that all of this would come to a head.

* * *

**Hammersmark AFB, Belka**  
**6 June 1995**  
**1313 hrs.**

I tilted my head forward into my hands, both clasped around the respirator attached to my helmet as if in prayer. My eyes were closed as the other MiG-31 Foxhounds in my squadron taxied in front of me.

"Engel 2-1, you are cleared for takeoff..." came the order to the lead plane. After him was Engel 2-2, then mine, Engel 2-3. It was appropriate that the count-up felt like a countdown to the launch of a rocket mission.

It had to. For everyone else on this flight, it was a mission to save Belka from the fanatics that had corrupted our national spirit for the sake of domination. But to me, this mission was much more personal.

The National Workers' Party had prided this war as correcting a "mistake" for national pride. By foiling their plan, I would correct my own mistake - that of supporting them.

"This is it, Nachtigall, are you ready?" my weapons systems officer asked from the seat behind me.

"Ready as I'll ever be, Oberleutnant."

Another voice then contacted me over the radio. "Annet- I mean...Nachtigall. I can't believe we're doing this."

"Neither can I, Gunther..." I replied as I started to ease the plane onto the tarmac.

* * *

**Neu Eisendorf AFB, Belka**  
**28 May 1995**  
**1721 hrs.**

It was a warm night out, made even warmer by the fact that my previous shower had gotten my body used to the cold. As a result, it felt almost tropical as I left the barracks in my dress uniform. I tried to keep my mind on my upcoming reassignment, not letting the sound of the large transport aircraft shuttling the pilots toward their 'special assignment' distract me.

For a moment, I really thought I finally got the events of the day out of my mind, and as I approached the command center it almost seemed as if it never happened at all.

At least until someone suddenly came out of nowhere and grabbed me by my shoulders. It wasn't as strong a grip as the BVK muscle that arrested me this morning, but it almost literally scared the piss out of me. It definitely caused me to yelp like a small, wounded animal.

"Oh God..._Oberleutnant_, someone to talk to!" he said.

"Jesus, you scared me!" I said, gasping for air. The pilot that grabbed me looked like he was just fresh out of the G-Force simulator.

"Good...uh...no...look, can we just talk somewhere?" The look on his face showed almost that exact same fear and panicked sadness that mine did earlier this morning.

"Uh, sure," I answered with a nervous glance to the side. I didn't know what he wanted at the time, but I started to mentally prepare myself for anything including a BVK trap. I wouldn't know if I would have time to feel regret if they decided to simply silence me once and for all with a bullet to the head.

We headed back into the barracks. Because men and women had separate quarters, we instead went into the rec room, which was predictably deserted with everyone else already in the mess hall or getting their reassignment.

"All right. We're out of everyone's sight. Who the hell are you?" I asked with a glare.

"L..._Leutnant_ Gunther Heimeroth," he said. The name didn't ring a bell.

"Okay. Gunther. _Leutnant_. Whoever you are. Why the hell is this all about?"

"Because," he replied on the brink of tears, "I don't know what's happening anymore...and I don't know what to do..."

"Do about what?" I asked, trying to contain my anger.

"You were there...weren't you?"

A tingle shot up my spine, and I looked around the room quickly to see if this was a cue for some black-uniformed Korps thugs to enter and arrest me.

"My record got me in, but I was in the back," I replied, doing my best to lie, "I don't think I noticed you. I left early while I could though...I just can't stand Korps propaganda. Why were you there?"

"My brother Michael is a Korps pilot..." he whimpered, trying to maintain his composure. "I wanted to go into computers when I enlisted...but he had me train as a pilot because that wasn't quite patriotic enough...then he ended up putting me in the rally."

I winced. Grabacr weren't the BVK's only squadron. They had others, named after creatures from Nordic mythology. And the rivalries between the BVK and the regular army extended into sibling rivalry.

"Why did you stay then?"

"Because...I didn't think it was going to be that bad..." he replied, shivering and looking out at the windows like Michael was watching, "And I didn't want to disappoint him."

"Wait, what happened after I left?" I assumed the General gave his loyal pilots one last salute and sang the anthem after Pops got arrested. But now that I had gotten this far already, it wasn't as if turning back would accomplish anything.

"You remember...Strossen showed us photos of our fighters shot down, wreckages. He taunted us about how we weren't doing enough," Gunther explained, "Didn't seem so bad at first, kept telling myself the Korps just love to lord it over us with their mind tricks."

"But that wasn't enough to get you out of the meeting?"

"No, I stayed to the end. I thought it was all just gonna be Korps bluster...then he started talking about how there would we would have to endure 'great sacrifices' to achieve a true victory. That we would be prepared to lose what we held dearest to us to save the nation."

"And yet you stayed?"

"I thought we were going to go on a low-altitude stealth bombing run to Oured or Gran Rugido," Gunther groaned. "You know, drop a couple bombs on a parking lot and flee to show them they're not invincible, like in those daring missions of the old days. I didn't know they were serious about nuclear weapons!"

"And you didn't say anything?" I replied frustratedly, though it felt like I was saying that to myself instead of him.

"I didn't want to at first. I thought Pops would rally us...but we cheered when they arrested him..." he whimpered.

It was then I remembered that the 'Pinguine' had a third nickname used only by those that he trained. His penchant for stern, fatherly behavior as the leader of his training squadron earned him the name 'Pops.'

"Arrested? Where is he now?" I asked fearfully, hoping I wouldn't get the answer I expected to hear.

"He tried to escape, but the Korps tracked him down and killed him..."

But that wasn't what caused me to shiver as much as the fact that news of my feat spread around so quickly.

"That was..." I stuttered, trying to feign surprise. "That was quick!"

"He tried to escape in an old MiG. I knew he could evade Schwarze with his skill, but they sent Bernitz after him..." he started to snivel, "He didn't stand a chance."

I wanted to feel relieved that people were crediting the kill to Bernitz, but that wouldn't change the fact that I actively aided Huckebein's demise.

Perhaps it was the memory of the events that transpired since then, but it was actually very easy to sympathize. He leaned in close as he started sobbing, and I hugged him like a mother consoling her son. Nobody thought it would be that bad. But now that we did, we would never forget it.

"And you waited all this time to tell someone..."

"I wanted to tell someone else. Really, I did! But my brother..." he moaned. "...He wouldn't give a s...second thought to having me imprisoned..."

Unfortunately, I knew the feeling. 10 hours and a long, cold shower wasn't enough to completely suppress an experience that suddenly came rushing back when Gunther ran into me. Even worse, it left me at a loss for words.

"What are we going to do now?" he then asked.

"Other than try to expose the plans from here?" I replied, looking at the floor, "I don't know...dammit...I just don't know...they'll kill us if we try to bring it to the Allies. We could show the base commander, but he's probably in on it..."

"You know what," Gunther replied, sitting up suddenly, "That's a good idea."

I stared dumbfounded at him. "Excuse me?"

"Follow me...There has got to be a base commander out in South Belka that doesn't want this to happen," he explained as he started to walk out, fueled by a sudden burst of what was either or both recklessness or courage.

"Are you out of your mind?" I exclaimed, standing up from my seat. "You think they're just going to take our word for it?"

"That's why we have to get a copy of the plans," he replied as we left the rec room.

"And how do you propose we do that?" I asked, as I inexorably ended up following him back out.

"If they used the auditorium's projector, then they probably used the computer wired to it. They might have saved a copy onto it." his voice died down outside, loud enough just for me to hear.

"What if they deleted the file?" I looked around repeatedly, checking to see if any of the base's security thought of what was happening as anything more than some lovers' quarrel.

"That's a chance we'll have to take," he replied with a smile as he looked back toward me.

"Wait!" I said. I didn't want to run to avoid attracting more attention, but he always seemed to walk faster than me. Before we knew it, we found ourselves at the same side entrance to the auditorium...my portal to fate.

And, as Gunther showed to my own horror, it hadn't been locked since this morning. Instead of leading me into the entrance hall, he went up a flight of side stairs which had to lead directly to the projector room. Surprisingly, we managed not to trip any alarms even as I followed him up, but then again this was an auditorium and not the GHQ.

We stopped by the projector room door. The hallway was dimly lit, but I could now see that Gunther was smiling as if he didn't care if he got caught.

"God...I don't know why I followed you..." I said, more exhausted than he was.

"It's okay..." Gunther said, also panting for breath. "It's not like we can go back now, can we?"

I simply nodded as he checked the doorknob. Perhaps _un_surprisingly...it wasn't locked either. The two of us went in and found ourselves in near absolute silence. The only "light" in the room that didn't come from outside came from the tiny red and green LEDs of the various machinery left on standby.

"You stand guard by the doorway, I'll switch it on." Out of reflex and despite every mental objection, I glued myself to the door and peered out as Gunther found the projector's main computer and switched it on. The silence was slowly washed way by the quiet whirring noise of machinery, then accented by Gunther tapping away at the keyboard in search of the digital silde show.

It looked like several files like those had been loaded onto the computer, but none of them were labeled with anything that might have given away their intent, such as 'BVK' or 'Eden.'

"Dammit, it's not here..." he grumbled.

I took a frustrated sigh and looked out. Nobody, not even the janitors, had noticed we were in here.

"I know..." he replied, "The files have records of when they were last accessed. Maybe if I check by their last access dates...a-ha! Here it is!"

I had turned my head to check outside long enough that I couldn't catch the file name. But when I turned it back, the familiar images of the map and the bomb locations suddenly appeared. I could hear _Gruppenfuhrer_ Strossen's words echoing in my head, explaining the plan again as we went through each slide.

"God...that's the one..." I murmured.

"Yeah. Now we just have to get it onto a disk and out of here..." Gunther looked around, noticing a minidisc on a shelf. "This should do it..."

I took another look outside as the disk slid into the drive with a click. My eyes widened as the beam of a flashlight seemed to dash about the hall.

"Someone's coming!" I said.

"I've got it...hang on..." Gunther replied, turning the computer screen off while the contents transferred to the disk. "Almost there..."

I gently closed the door and slid behind it. I didn't even have a sidearm on me, so if we got caught, we were done for.

"Aaaand...we're done. Come on, let's go..." he whispered, hastily switching the computer off and crawling over to me as I watched a flicker of light pass through the small gap under the door. I held my breath as I heard a set of footsteps pass by.

As soon as both of us were sure the footsteps passed, the two of us raced out the door and bolted in the opposite direction.

We hurried down the steps, sweat beading down our foreheads as we approached the exit whence we came. Someone had closed the door, but since we were already inside it wasn't hard to unlock and open it again.

As the auditorium door closed behind us, the two of us rounded a corner to the back of the building where we stopped to catch our breath.

"Wow...I can't believe we did it..." Gunther panted, laughing.

Unlike him, I didn't find it humorous in the least. I grabbed his shoulders in much the same way he grabbed mine. That wiped the smile off of his face.

"Hold on. How do I know we didn't just do all this as a setup for a Korps ambush?" I asked sternly.

"Because I thought you'd do the same thing," he said, forcing a smile, "Getting me to express my traitorous desires and have me caught red handed."

Gunther then proceeded to return my grasp with a hug. My eyes almost bugged out of their sockets, as I imagined the sirens of a Korps SUV or the sound of boots marching up to arrest me. But none of these fears were realized, even after he let go.

"Ah, hell. Where do we go from here?" I asked, my face flushed.

"Well," he replied, putting one hand on his hips and scratching his head with the other, "we still have to send this to someone."

"But you know you can't just walk into the base commander's office and show it to him," I said, "Just...don't write your name on the envelope."

"Yeah, you're probably right." He then offered the disc to me. I recoiled like it was radioactive. "Hey, maybe you could-"

"Really. I don't want this coming back to any of us," I said, fear causing me to push his hand back to him, while talking faster than I normally did. "If anyone asks, I don't even know you.

"I guess you're right... So..."

"I'll see you later..." I hastily added, before turning my back and walking as fast as I could toward the mess hall.

I looked back for a split second to see him waving timidly.

My legs were already starting to tremble again as I walked into the command center to get my reassignment. After that, I went straight back to the barracks and passed out.

* * *

**Hammersmark AFB, Belka  
6 June 1995  
1245 hrs.**

Hammersmark AFB was located in one of the few parts of South Belka not yet taken by the Allies, specifically on a swath of grassy plain just over the western side of the Waldreichs. It wasn't a particularly large or busy base compared to Neu Eisendorf, which made it a nice, inconspicuous hub for a minor supply route conveniently far from the nearest quiet hamlet.

It therefore seemed an ideal place to relegate someone that had fallen out of favor with the government without killing them or giving them a desk job.

That was certainly what it felt like, as my previous assignment had been 'redacted' and a transport wing stationed here hastily typed in its place. The Neu Eisendorf base commander didn't ask any questions about it, and from the look on his face he didn't want me to. The Korps conveniently wanted me out of the way for the duration of the conflict after doing their dirty work, and it was much better than a(n immediate) show trial and execution.

Meanwhile, the war went on. The Allies carpetbombed Hoffnung five days ago. Hundreds of civilians died, not just from their bombers but from the Army and Korps' scorched earth tactics. They abandoned the city and its surviving citizens to their fate, disillusioned and distrustful of anyone but themselves, while the Demon Lord and his minions looked on from above and laughed. While the fires of the city died down by morning, the fires of discontent within Belka slowly burned hotter and hotter by the day.

And there was no better way to fuel these flames than with a plan for imminent nuclear apocalypse. The digital slide show wasn't incriminating in itself when it arrived anonymously at Military Intelligence, which was already frustrated enough with the National Workers' Party's efforts to escalate their tactics. But it did get a lot of the "regulars" digging into their Korps counterparts more diligently than did before. Now that the rest of the Armed Forces had been drawn into this plot, everyone was in it together.

For better or worse.

Yet I didn't know the full scale of what the Armed Forces had been able to put together in such relatively short notice until that fateful morning. I had been flying C-5s and C-130s shuffling equipment over the Waldreichs and back since my reassignment, quietly trying to forget what I did in Neu Eisendorf and hoping that our army would somehow reach a ceasefire and allow it to all pass into history. It helped that I hadn't been re-arrested and then executed immediately after that night, and by the evening of the 5th, I could even get something close to a good night's sleep.

I just never expected to face those events again in the manner that things turned out that morning.

I had just climbed out of a C-5 from an early-morning transport sortie when I was greeted on the tarmac by a member of the Special Forces who informed me that I was wanted for briefing. I stopped in my tracks for a split second upon noticing him, almost mistaking him for a Korps agent.

It wasn't surprising that I needed to attend a briefing for my next mission so quickly. With the Allies getting closer, the Army needed every resource diverted to the battlefield as soon as possible.

What surprised me was the fact that I hadn't been notified beforehand over the radio, and that it wasn't exactly normal protocol for the Special Forces to hold a briefing for Luftwaffe pilots unless the mission had to be top secret. And at least it wasn't an MP or a member of the Korps here to re-arrest me.

There were sixteen pilots in the briefing room, including myself and of all people, Gunther Heimeroth. Gunther was quite happy to see me, giving me practically the same hug he gave me more than a week ago at Neu Eisendorf. But I was particularly scared to see him, especially since he was supposed to be somewhere else preparing for Operation Eden. Had he gone AWOL or done something else to anger his brother or superiors?

I didn't get a chance to ask him before the base commander that organized this briefing greeted me.

"_Oberleutnant_ Zweig, good to see you made it," the commandant began, to which I replied with a salute before taking my seat. "That should be everyone."

Presiding over this briefing was Base Commander Dieter Hellmuth, along with a few mid-rank officers of the Army and Special Forces. Even the chief of the nearby town's police had shown up in a patrol uniform. The mood was somber and serious, with none of the pomp and circumstance of Gruppenfuhrer Strossen's rally. And the room was filled with an almost eerie silence, as if I was the guest at a haunted party.

Hellmuth was one of Strossen's contemporaries and one of the many veterans of the Expansion War. His influence within the Luftwaffe also made him one of those critics of the National Workers' Party government too valuable to simply 'dispose of' compared to a normal pilot like Pops. Thus he and others were quietly pushed aside to where they would pose no harm until the war's end when they could be dealt with.

Of course, the flaw in that logic was that they ended up concentrating all these critics in just a few places and at this point they didn't quite have the resources to kill them all in one fell swoop. With Schwarze gone, it also gave a wider opportunity to those inclined to flee. Those that stayed behind had room to plan.

"You are all in this room because you are patriots. You are prepared to give your lives for Belka." Commandant Hellmuth began solemnly, in respect for the mission he assigned to us. "This is war, after all, and it is our duty as soldiers to represent our country and people in battle."

He then took a deep breath as to avoid sounding like his Korps counterpart.

"But we as soldiers do not just have a patriotic duty to serve our country. Above and beyond that we have a moral duty to protect our country from those that are willing to blind themselves in their quest for victory. And that means taking even larger risks than they do."

He nodded to the side, where an aide switched on the briefing room's projector to show a map of the Waldreichs.

"GHQ South have just informed us that several bomber flights equipped with nuclear weapons will be taking off in the next few minutes against Allied targets in Belka and Ustio."

This clearly unsettled the pilots and staff, who probably already knew but weren't expecting it so soon. It unsettled me and Gunther especially, since many of Operation Eden's targets still hadn't quite fallen into Allied hands. Whether the government predicted the Allied advance into those areas was beside the point. It wouldn't matter who died in the blasts, as long as it furthered the Nationalists' agenda.

"Over the past few days we have coordinated with other bases in and around Belka about the plan they are executing now. Not only do they sympathize with us, they are also readying their own efforts to stop Operation Eden. Needless to say, forces loyal to the government have also caught wind, and there is no doubt they are moving to silence us even now."

Once again, I imagined that as a cue for a swift and deadly raid that would end in a protracted, painful death for those not killed immediately.

"Sir? Wouldn't the Allies know about this already?" one of the pilots asked.

"That is a good question, _Hauptmann_," Hellmuth replied. "The BVK have been drastically efficient at preventing any leaks. By the time the Allies' radiation detectors start going off, they'll barely have time to scramble let alone shoot them down."

I lowered my head in shame.

"According to the information we received from military intelligence, two of these bomber flights will pass within operational range of Hammersmark Base. Thus, you will be divided into two groups, codenamed Engel 1 and 2."

Two blue lines denoting these flights appeared on the map, extending to meet two thick red arrows emerging from bases in the north. Two lists of names also appeared denoting our assignments. Mine was Engel 2-3, Gunther was 2-4.

"Engel 1 will intercept the bomber flight over Mollsitz in Ostland. Engel 2 will head out over Waldreich."

Waldreich was one of the first settlements of the old civilizations trying to chart paths westward across the mountain range from Lake Edelwasser and Stier Castle. The town's name translated loosely to 'wooded,' which suited the town's history as a logging site for the old Belkan kingdoms. Today, the Korps would send messengers of destruction over the mountains, not exploration.

"You will have our fighter fleet at your disposal. The interceptors may not seem like much, but they are very well maintained and should make short work of a 335."

Commandant Hellmuth then took a long sigh, as if to get to the 'bad news' after explaining the good.

"They have also been modified so they will not broadcast a hostile IFF to the Allies, however this will not guarantee that they won't fire at you."

Hellmuth did not mince words when it came to the risks we faced as we found ourselves facing off against enemies and former friends. But at that moment, I began to think of the Demon Lord. What if he found himself between us and the bombers? Would it finally trigger what little moral fiber he had left, or would he sit back and savor the destruction? Or perhaps not knowing about Operation Eden or its intended consequences, would he just try to shoot down as many of us as possible in hopes of a bigger paycheck until the fireball sent him back to hell?

"This mission may very likely end in failure. Perhaps we can only stop one or two nukes from reaching their targets, perhaps it will not stop the Allies' bloodlust or our Chancellor Drexler's greed. Whatever the case, it must be known that here and across Belka we did not blindly follow our nation into destruction."

The projector shut off, and Hellmuth walked into the aisle between our seats.

"I cannot keep you any longer. The Special Forces at this base will ensure your planes get off the ground before the Korps arrive. If you do not wish to fly, you may escape with the flight crews with no stain on your record or dignity. Either way, you are on your own once you decide. Dismissed."

Each of us saluted and slowly filed out of the briefing room without another word, as Commandant Hellmuth watched us leave. All of us walked straight toward the hangars. There was no rousing applause, no salutes or singing of the national anthem, merely a quiet reverence to the task at hand. It was not hard to tell that all sixteen of us had already resolved to intercept the bombers. Which left me to break the silence.

"Gunther? What the hell are you doing here!" I suddenly asked.

"I'm going to stop my brother's plans, that's what," Gunther replied, suddenly filled with a much more angry determination than before.

"But weren't you already assigned to Operation Eden?"

"I...uh..." Gunther leaned in, embarrassed to confess, "I had a nervous breakdown after sending the data. My brother intervened, had me sent here so he could deal with me _personally_ afterward..."

I smirked and half-glared. The sibling rivalry between branches of the military was a double-edged sword. The blessing of having influential family in the ranks also came with the curse of being forced to live down the peer pressure and competition.

"Lucky you," came my response, "My little sister's hiding in a bomb shelter somewhere."

The northeast hadn't really seen much action from any opposing forces other than the occasional attempted bombing raid by the Yuktobanians, and they weren't likely to see any for the time being thanks to a much more target-rich environment closer to the front line.

"Lucky is right...I've got a chance to finally show my brother what's really worth fighting for," Gunther replied excitedly.

Hammersmark kept a small fleet of standard MiG-31s for interception duties. With our air force decimated by recent battles, the MiGs were stretched thin and often sent out with little more than basic maintenance. There was a strange warmth about their hangars as we entered, probably from the Foxhounds' engines still cooling from their last sortie.

I took a long sigh as I strapped myself into the Foxhound's cockpit, with my weapons support officer seated behind me. Unlike the Berkut or the Falcon, the Foxhound's cockpit felt almost ancient. The radar system would be operated my my weapons systems officer, who was already clicking away at the control panel in the seat behind me.

I tilted my head forward into my hands, both clasped around the respirator attached to my helmet as if in prayer. My eyes were closed as the other MiG-31 Foxhounds in my squadron taxied in front of me.

"Engel 2-1, you are cleared for takeoff..."

"This is it, Nachtigall, are you ready?" my weapons systems officer asked from the seat behind me.

"Ready as I'll ever be..."

"_Oberleut_- I mean...Nachtigall," came Gunther's voice, "I can't believe we're doing this."

"Neither can I, Gunther." I still couldn't fully believe that the events of the past two weeks even happened at all, let alone that we were now trying to stop them. But here we were.

The Waldreichs lined the horizon off the other side of the runway. Snow-capped peaks topped a vast expanse of green-striped gray as the mountains and their forests obscured our destinies, and our fates. And yet with these events now staring me down I felt a genuine sense of calm. That I had truly expended every other option, and that I would emerge from facing these events a better person than before. If I lived long enough to emerge, that is.

"Engel 2-3, you cleared for takeoff." my radio crackled. I gulped as I edged the plane onto the runway. Engel 2-2's plane was already shrinking into a dot in the sky.

"Roger," my weapons systems officer and I replied in unison as I turned up the throttle. The plane lurched, rumbled, then charged forward before lifting off.

"Altitude restrictions cancelled," came the last order from the control tower, "Don't die out there, Engel flight."

"Hey Nachtigall," my weapons systems officer suddenly said, "Looks like we made it out just in time. Check out what's happening below."

I looked over to my side as I retracted the landing gear. I could see a convoy of armored vehicles rapidly converging on the airfield, their crews ready to eliminate whoever they hadn't let get away. I could see blue LED blinkers on top of white police cars forming a roadblock, with Special Forces setting up ambush positions around them. I could only hope that Gunther's 2-4 got airborne before they got to him.

For the first time, I really felt confident that we would finally right our nation's and our own personal mistakes. We really believed we could change the course of history, hoping that the flight's supersonic interception capabilities would help us stop them in time.

But as we would soon learn, we were already too late to have history written for us.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	8. Epicenter

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them. Gunther Heimeroth character by Pokefanficwriter92.

* * *

_

_"War is not just bombing a place. When war begins, it has no limit." - Mahmoud Ahmadinejad_

**On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)**  
**Chapter 6**

**Seven Pillars Memorial Museum**  
**Stier Castle, Belka **  
**June 2015**  
**1353 hrs.**

**Albert Genette  
**

I never imagined that I would find myself this close to one of the Belkan nuclear craters in my own lifetime. In fact I was only a child when my teacher rolled a television set into our classroom to show us footage of the nuclear blasts captured on my future channel of employment. But now that I was here, I realized that I also never imagined myself paying more attention to a computer screen than the craters themselves, as I punched in a name and number on a museum computer's search function while tourists and museum guides hovered around the castle halls.

I gazed out of the window next to it, past the ancient walls to the barely-alive township of Stiergarten below while it loaded. A large plastic panel by the window showed the layout of the town as it was on that morning 20 years ago. Indeed, it's still hard to believe there's anybody alive down there.

It was one of these views of the desolate land that President Vincent Harling must have to have endured during his confinement in this castle after his abduction, another being the crater that was once the town of Waldreich from the opposite side of the castle. It was also possible to see other craters from the higher towers of the castle.

Stiergarten was one of Belka's oldest settlements. Nestled in the valley under its namesake castle, the town actually started off as part of the fiefdom ruled from the Castle. This fiefdom included the larger trading town of Waldreich on the other side of Lake Edelwasser. Stiergarten only gained its name separate from Waldreich after the country's Unification in the late 1800s, when it became one of the hearts of Eastern Osea's wine country.

After the Expansion War, both the castle and the wineries became popular tourist attractions until the outbreak of the Belkan War. Authentic bottles of vintage Stiergarten 1994 run into the Z10,000 (BM 12,500) range, and auction sites are always on the lookout for forged '95s from fraudsters looking to make easy money. This was because vintage years of Stiergarten wine only ran up to 1994, as the harvest season would have started in the autumn the following year.

But that harvest never grew. Nothing grows here except the numbers of tourists that want the closest safe view of the nuclear horizon from the Belkan side of the border.

I turned my head back to the kiosk screen as the data that Annette Zweig gave me returned precisely one entry.

As I clicked, I hoped deep down that it would confirm what she had done on the day everything changed. And, perhaps, show that her survival changed her.

* * *

**15,000 feet above Stiergarten, Belka**  
**6 June 1995**  
**1508 hrs.**

**OLT Annette Zweig  
**

The skies had grown frightfully overcast since my squadron and I began passing over the Waldreichs, as if we had quite literally crossed into some evil land. What started with blue sky slowly clouded over into ominous darkness. Not that we weren't too bothered with passing the point of no return...at least at the point we were now. We alone stood between a fleet of bombers and their plot to obliterate the nation. We faced long odds against them and their escorts, and that wasn't counting the likelihood of forces loyal to Chancellor Drexler or even the Allies denying us a safe runway to return to.

The four MiG-31 Foxhounds that made up our flight were built for supersonic interception, but we were already using up our afterburners just to buy us a few more precious seconds to stop a fleet of bombers from delivering nuclear terror. We could just see their target below: the small city of Waldreich. Even from up here it wasn't hard to tell that the place had been fortified against imminent Allied movement, not that they knew what was really in store for them from the Eden bombers above. It wasn't long before an AWACS contacted us to let us know we were at least travelling in the right direction.

"Engel Flight, this is AWACS callsign Beethoven, I'm your flight controller for this mission," he began. He sounded more afraid than we were, and for good reason. For volunteering to aid us, he put his lone aircraft high above where most fighters could reach him and even an enemy AWACS to spot him. "I'll keep you updated on the Eden bomber flight headed to Waldreich and Mollsitz."

The lead plane in my flight responded. "This is Engel 2-1, we copy. Requesting sitrep."

"I have you on my scopes, bearing 0-8-0 north of Waldreich. Operation Eden bombers, range 20 miles at 0-9-niner. You'll only have a few minutes at the most once you get into missile range."

All eight of us in Engel 2, pilots and weapons systems officers alike, all perked to attention if we weren't already there.

"Wow..." Gunther began over 2-4's radio, "I still can't believe this is it..."

I looked out the canopy toward his plane as if to face him directly. "Me neither, but here we are."

"Beethoven to Engel Team. Looks like someone's trying to beat us to it. We have Ustian fighters engaging the Waldreich bomber flight, 10 miles out."

"How many bandits?" asked Engel 2-1.

"It's turning into a furball, we can pick out five. All with Ustio IFFs."

If I was already focusing all my attention and effort to catching up to Operation Eden, then the mention of Ustian fighters already clashing with the bombers turned attention into obsession. I feared my Foxhound wouldn't even be able to keep up with the Demon Lord, let alone shoot him down. And that wasn't even counting the fact that a potential nuclear apocalypse took much higher priority than shooting down a defecting ace.

"Roger. Tally ho on Operation Eden," Engel 2-1 suddenly announced. My grip on the flight stick tightened as I spotted the dogfight up ahead.

The gigantic BM-335s were easy to spot, almost as easy as the ones that already took hits. The much smaller fighters - escorts or otherwise - darted every which way around them like flies around a giant wounded animal. I already knew from my unfortunate firsthand experience that their armor would already be compromised by their age, but that was clearly beside the point.

"Two, no, three planes are down. But this has no bearing on our plans," came a transmission from the lead bomber, unfazed with his comrades and escorts plummeting downward into farms and wineries. Both Eden and Engel flights were on the same frequency.

"Do they intend to wipe our homeland off the map! That's crazy!" shouted Engel 2-2.

"That's my brother's government for you," Gunther replied, "Any ends will justify their means and to hell with anyone in the way."

Surely they didn't need all these bombers just for one town! One of them held the nuclear weapon, but there was no way we'd wait for the radiation detectors to go off.

"Weapons are hot!" my weapons systems announcer replied, to which I added, "Engel 2-3, awaiting orders to engage."

"Negative," replied Beethoven. "We'll give them one last warning while the Ustians have them held up."

I started breathing rapidly. These people were fanatics, they wouldn't listen to a warning that would give _them_ the seconds we gained. The only thing we could count on was that the Ustians would still try to shoot them down. Nationalities aside, 'heroism' still came with a bigger paycheck.

"Warning. Change course immediately. Return to base or you will be shot down," Engel 2-1 began.

"Eliminate anyone that attempts to interfere," came the reply. "They're no longer our allies. Don't hesitate to shoot them down.

"They're really intent on carrying through with this!" Gunther replied.

"Like animals backed into a corner," Engel 2-1 replied. "They'll fight to the bitter end. Let's go."

"You got it, Engel flight," Beethoven replied, "Weapons free. Engage bomber flight at will. Do not fire on any Ustio craft unless they fire at you first."

"Engel 2-1, engaging!"  
"Engel 2-2, moving to engage!"  
"This is Engel 2-3, let's do this," I replied, before taking a deep breath. I now had to live up to the avian mantra more than ever: fly or die.  
"Hell yeah," Gunther added from 2-4, "Engel 2-4, engaging!"

"Okay, Nachtigall, time to save the world! Keep 'er steady!" my weapons systems officer barked as I lined one of the bombers up in my sights. The missile-lock alert went off in the cockpit.

"Engel 2-3, Fox three!" he shouted, as we sent a pair of long-range radar-guided missiles raced out at the bombers. The other Foxhounds also launched their own salvos as well, and quite a few of them found their targets in the midst of the chaos.

Needless to say, whatever escort fighters were engaged with the Ustians also started coming at us as well. The four of us broke formation to divide their fire. I jinked hard to the right as an F-15 darted out at me from the furball. Maybe it was out of reflex, but the thought of that plane being the Demon Lord's caused me to bank the Foxhound so quickly that it actually jarred my weapons systems officer.

"Christ, Nachtigall!" he shouted, "I nearly had that one!"

"You can still see him, dammit," I replied, leveling the Foxhound out with the bombers in sight. "We only got a few seconds before the escort locks onto us."

I kept the plane steady long enough for my co-pilot to fire off a pair of medium-range Adders from the wings. We managed to see the missiles violently separate the tail section off a BM-335 from the rest of the fuselage, sending it spinning out of control. Although it was good to see another Eden bomber go down, I couldn't help but wince wondering how things would have turned out if I had suffered that fate myself over Valais. Of course, there was no time to reminisce.

"Bogey's turning around to your six, Engel 2-3! Evade!" shouted Beethoven as I tried to line another bomber up in the HUD.

The hulking form of the flaming 335 shadowed out my Foxhound for a split second before I pulled the Foxhound into a loop, deploying chaff against the Eagle's missiles. Blood rushed to my head, tilting it toward the ground with gravity as my plane seemed to loop right over the bomber formation. This was probably the first and only time I had ever gotten a view of the BM-335's grand wingspan from this angle, and it only lasted a few seconds before I righted the plane level, heading away from the fleet and the dogfight.

"Missile evaded!" my co-pilot shouted, "We're not out of the woods yet!

"I've got him," came 2-2, "You go after the bombers, 2-3."

"Copy 2-2," I replied as I circled the plane around to the rear of the formation. Tracer bullets whizzed by as the side and rear gunners of the 335s tried to draw a bead on the Foxhound, but th.

"We're making short work of the bombers!" my co-pilot shouted as I turned back around to face what was left of the Eden formation. "These Ustians are good!"

"I just hope we don't have to worry about them when we're done," I replied, as I passed a 335 and aligned to pursue.

There was only one bomber left, still stoically airborne as if oblivious to the dogfight going on all around it. I could just see Stier Castle passing under its nine o'clock as I edged my plane into pursuit. That BM-335's rear-mounted vulcan cannon began spewing tracer rounds in my plane's direction as I jammed the airbrake to give us some distance.

"That's it, Nachtigall, just keep 'er steady..." my co-pilot said, "Fox three!"

Two more radar-guided missiles dropped from my Foxhound's hardpoints and darted past withering gunfire and into the last remaining bomber. They tore into the fuselage and practically vaporized the BM-335's bulk, sending a smoldering pile of wreckage down into the grassy plains below. If that plane carried the warhead, then the explosion would incinerate the material without detonating it, and leave the core smoldering away somewhere for a cleanup crew to find.

"All bombers confirmed destroyed! Great job Engel 2 flight, looks like you saved the world after all," Beethoven announced, to the cheers across the radio channels. "Word from Hammersmark is Engel 1's almost done mopping up. Looks like the Ustians are happy too. I'll try to patch you in."

I was anxious to hear what the mercenaries were thinking at this point, as much as wondering how they would react to this as I was curious to know if the Demon Lord really was among them.

"...no impossible jobs for us mercenaries!" shouted one, a pilot that had to be younger than I was.

"Read 'em and weep, Belkans!" exclaimed another.

"Hey!" was Gunther's jokingly insulted reply. The two of them laughed it off, though.

I simply took a deep sigh of relief. We had really done it. We really believed we saved two towns and everyone holed up there from nuclear vaporization. Of course we didn't know if the other attacks would succeed, even from up here, until after we landed. And that was if Beethoven could find us a nice stretch of tarmac to land on. For now, we could take solace in the fact that some of us didn't follow our own army to destruction.

"Hey Zweig," my weapons systems officer asked, "...two missiles hit that last one, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Because I think we only fired one."

"You sure?" I didn't know whether it mattered, the missiles did their job.

"Pretty sure. Whoever fired the other one is flying next to us."

I tried to turn to see who it was. I couldn't see him from my cockpit, but at least he didn't appear to want to attack us just yet, anyway.

"Engel 2 to Ustio flight," I said, craning repeatedly to see what the other pilot flew. "Thanks for the help."

"No problem," came the reply, quiet and almost reassuring, "The pleasure was all mine."

My relief suddenly dissipated as I suddenly felt gripped by an unshakable fear. I could not put a name to that voice, but at the same time it felt as if that voice was as familiar as a relative's. I turned my head as much as the cockpit would allow to see if it was who I thought it was, not noticing that Beethoven continued to transmit.

"Beethoven to Engel 2. A single aircraft has just appeared on radar just south of the combat area."

"Engel 2-1 to Beethoven, can you identify it?"

"Its IFF seems to be off. It's directly over Waldreich, vector 1-niner-2. That's odd, I'm getting some strange readings from it-"

"What the-?" was a mercenary's simultaneous reply.

Time seemed to stand still as I finally caught a glimpse of the other plane.

I only managed to notice the plane had blue-tipped wings as the world was suddenly bathed in blinding white light.

In the silence before I opened my eyes to the apocalyptic rumble that shorted out my plane's instrument panels and silenced the profanities my co-pilot shouted in response, the Demon Lord vanished into the shadows yet again.

The rumble died out to the sound of frantic radio transmissions between the Ustians and whoever was left from Engel Flight. Beethoven had gone silent, perhaps permanently. And I was in a daze like everyone else trying to figure out what was going on...though I didn't have to figure out what just happened.

Someone had somehow managed to complete Operation Eden in Waldreich where an entire fleet of bombers had failed. It was as if the entire dogfight had just stopped, and everyone simply forgot what they were doing up here.

"Engel 2-1! 2-4! Do you read! Anybody! Respond!" I could hear my co-pilot shouting from behind me. "God...what have we done!"

I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do or where to fly. I gripped the flight stick to keep the plane level, but that was it. Perhaps the magnitude of the mission's sudden collapse didn't even warrant a response. Or maybe it was perhaps we had lost our only reason to fly.

The Foxhound seemed to float in the sickeningly turquoise sky for what felt like hours before I suddenly found clarity. I didn't know why or how it happened, but I began to inexorably nudge the interceptor toward the one marker in space that came to mind. Not for direction, not for a way to escape, but to keep me from floating away to oblivion.

Before long, I could see an F-15 Eagle with blue-tipped wings come into view. And, it seemed, just in time as well.

Someone was trying to kill him.

"Buddy...I think I've found a reason to fight," came a voice over the radio. It was different from the one that scared me earlier, but no less ominous.

"Pixy? What the f-!" exclaimed the voice of the Demon Lord, overtaken with surprise. The last thing I heard from him before the transmission got cut off was a missile alert.

Whoever this "Pixy" was, he flew the exact same type of plane as the Demon Lord's, only his was entirely gray with one wing painted bright red. My Foxhound, being in whatever visual range could be afforded in the blur, was the only one that could help him.

Something inside me told me to let him die as vengeance for the humiliation above Valais and B7R. I would be safe if I just managed to hobble my plane around the mushroom cloud and back to Hammersmark or Sudentor or some clear swath of ground to land on.

And yet although it sounded like the same voice of conscience that tried to talk me out of the grand briefing at Neu Eisendorf, I refused to follow it. I gunned the afterburners and headed straight for the two.

"Nachtigall! What are you doing?" my co-pilot shouted, on the brink of tears. Sharing the same cockpit meant I could at least hear him clearer than anyone else out there.

"We couldn't save anyone below," I replied with an almost nihilistic determination, "We might as well save someone up here."

The Foxhound caught up with the two dueling Eagles quickly. However its lack of nimbleness meant I ended up over-correcting when the Demon Lord's evasive patterns pulled his pursuer into equally-tight maneuvers that the Foxhound found itself too heavy to imitate. How the Foxhound could keep up with the Demon Lord was a mystery in itself, as much as figuring out what drove me to try to save him in the first place above the increasingly infrequent complaints from my co-pilot.

That I would find out only later, after it was too late. But now, all that mattered was clearing out whoever was on his tail. And although the tracking capabilities of my missiles had been neutralized, I still had control over the cannons.

23mm rounds burst out from the Foxhound's gatling cannon at the red-winged F-15. The aim was almost spot on, but the pilot had reflexes on his side as he bugged out, escaping with a nicked stabilizer.

"Cipher! You've got one on you!" shouted a much younger voice over the radio.

"We got one closing in head on-" my weapons systems officer shouted. I could barely hear him over the din of our Foxhound engines still working. Not that I would have heard him finish his sentence.

I ducked as much as my safety harness would allow, as cannon fire suddenly appeared from out of the fog, punching holes through the cockpit and wings of my Foxhound, effectively disabling it. There were no alarms ringing from my cockpit as the Foxhound began to depressurize, but I could feel the wounded interceptor dying as smoke began to pour out of its sides and the thrust started to die down.

"Goddammit!" I shouted, "We've been hit! Lieutenant...Lieutenant?"

I didn't get a reply, and the red splatters all over the canopy revealed why. My weapons system officer was dead.

"Oh God...oh God..." I whimpered, tears starting to trickle from my eyes.

I was now effectively blind and deaf in the blur, unable to communicate. I followed my now-ironically-named survival instinct and triggered the canopy release, immediately subjecting me to possibly radioactive wind even before I pressed the eject switch.

The rumble of jet engines and combat faded as I fell further and further away from the dogfight. Even as I deployed my parachute I couldn't tell which way was up as I plummeted into the cloud of radioactive ash slowly washing its way over the earth below. I reflexively held my breath, but I ended up exhaling almost as soon as I entered the cloud.

I looked "down" hoping that I would hit solid ground and somehow scurry my way over to some place to hide from this nightmare. But that luxury was denied as my body seemed to contract in on itself, talons from hell suddenly scratching at the seat.

It was only when gravity stopped pulling that I noticed my parachute caught itself on the branches of a tree.

There was no comfort to be found even when I finally fumbled about to unfasten my safety straps and free myself from the ejection seat, resuming my fall through the cloud for a few seconds. Pain shot through my legs as the ground seemed to get the jump on me, probably dislocating something as I found myself unable to even kneel without causing great pain. Screaming in pain was natural yet futile. Worse yet, I was still almost completely blind in the cloud of radioactive dust that slowly wafted over the area.

Every breath I took seemed to draw in copious amounts of ash and other debris, setting my innards on fire. Every movement my limbs made in any direction took every last drop of effort in that vain hope that I would somehow reach shelter from this radioactive storm. It was a burden that got insurmountably heavier with every squirm, dulling and eventually suppressing my senses. Soon, I could barely even see the ash. My helmet's goggles prevented the dust from burning the eyes out of my skull, but it wasn't as if sight mattered as I felt the last of my strength draining from me.

As everything went black, I could still somehow hear the clouds of dust and snow and rain blowing around my corpse. I wished for those winds to bury me in the rubble of Stiergarten.

But in time, the howling winds too faded, leaving me numb in oblivion.

The last thing I could remember hearing was Huckebein's voice on the radio before I shot him down.

"That was a good flight, Anne. See you on the other side."

We wouldn't.

Maybe if I hadn't lured myself to that fateful rally in Neu Eisendorf, or if I had let Huckebein escape instead of shooting him down, nothing would have changed, neither my fate or that of the country. Maybe it would have only meant eight nuclear weapons would have detonated above those towns instead of seven. But I was much more certain of something else.

When I decided to help that plot by shooting Huckebein down, I already sealed my place in history. I was a collaborator. I thought I could redeem myself in my desperate attempt to stop it...but in the end I knew this was the ignominious death I deserved. The blood of 20,001 people was on my hands, including the co-pilot I dragged to his demise. If they somehow found my body, they would identify me and condemn my eternal memory to villainy.

I found some twisted solace in the fact that I wouldn't be able to change what was now etched in stone. Yet I had also come to an even more profound realization, regrettably only in time for my demise.

I saved the Demon Lord's life, if only for the few moments before I was shot down. And more than that, I now felt as if it were necessary, like nature taking its course.

People like the Demon Lord didn't survive and profit because they knew that any human being would forsake the values they held so dear when pushed far enough. Most people, sane or otherwise, came to that conclusion sooner or later.

No, they lived because they knew how to take advantage of it. People like Heinrich Strossen and Ashley Bernitz, even Colonel Buchner and Gunther and Michael Heimeroth would not last in the world that these nuclear bombs created. Their obsession with preserving their versions of morality would certainly be their undoing. But the Demon Lord would always find an opportunity in people like them, in Belka, or Osea, or Ustio, in whatever organization came knocking to prosper for himself. And there were always more opportunities to take their place when they had their fill.

My mind, as the process of death went, was the last thing to go. Before I completely succumbed to death's embrace, I decided that I wouldn't fight the Demon Lord anymore, at least in the sense that I antagonized him since the war began.

Rather, if I were somehow incarnated into another life, I should instead strive to compete with him and even try to become like him. Maybe even to replace him in legend or infamy.

Today, I still believe that arriving at that revelation granted me that reincarnation.

When I regained consciousness on a surgeon's table a few days later, I felt as if I were reborn.

_

* * *

**To Be Concluded...**_

_Author's Note: Yes, PJ just shot them down. Irony._


	9. Second Chances

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them. Gunther Heimeroth character by Pokefanficwriter92.  
_

**

* * *

On Wings of Nightingales (Mercenary)**  
**Chapter 7**

_"The real heroes always manage to die first, but guys like him, Solo Wing and me, we live the rest of our lives in hell. But, then again, being alive is proof that we were good." - Dominic Zubov, former BAF pilot_

On June 6, 1995, at 3:13 PM, the Belkan military airburst seven nuclear bombs across the Waldreich Mountains. The bombs were detonated over the seven major towns that lay along their corresponding highways into Nord Belka.

More than 12,000 people were killed immediately. An additional 5,000 people died of radiation symptoms in the months that followed, and hundreds are believed lost in the Waldreich Mountains having fled for safety - in any direction - from the blasts. The vast majority of the casualties were Belkans themselves, military personnel attached to these towns and civilian hold-outs. Although the mountainous terrain contained much of the radiation, many bodies of water were contaminated, and rivers that flowed from these mountains along with the environments around the rivers and lakes remain virtually devoid of life even today.

Less than an hour after the detonations, Chancellor Wilhelm Drexler stood before Parliament in Dinsmark, and boldly declared that no foreign power would ever set foot in the "Holy Land" that was the northern province of Belka's birthplace.

These attacks did ultimately achieve their purpose of halting not just the Allied advance, but the war effort altogether. Everyone on both sides immediately stopped their combat operations to witness the blasts, broadcast all over the world by networks following the war effort. The following morning, President Herbert Walker gave a solemn address before the Osean Federation Council, vowing to bring the perpetrators of the crime to justice 'by any means necessary.' The address was met with a standing ovation lasting two minutes.

Finally realizing what their government would do to enforce their ideology, cities across Belka erupted in violent revolt. Before the week was over, the majority of the National Workers' Party membership had either gone into hiding or committed suicide, as Chancellor Drexler did. Others in the military went underground, some emerging as part of the brief A World With No Boundaries insurgency.

Fearing a power vacuum, the Allies cobbled together a group of opposition politicians - many of them exiled by the National Workers' Party over the years - to form an interim government, which officially capitulated on 12 June. These politicians then represented Belka at the negotiations that followed at Lumen. Naturally, the interim government was very easily pliable to Allied demands including the claim to South Belka by Osea as 'reparations.' The north was reincorporated into the Principality of Belka, with a member of the old Belkan royal family as the ceremonial head of state. The AN formed the Mission in Belka (ANMIBEL), which was tasked to keep the situation in the country from spilling back into neighboring countries until a stable government was formed.

Less flexible were the demands over the natural resources in the disputed areas, which the superpowers continued to bicker over for years after the Treaty of Lumen was signed. And the hastily-improvised interim governments did not last, with several different factions taking power in Belka despite AN presence before stability was restored in early 1998. As before, these arguments were quickly overshadowed and seemingly forgotten by the looming Ulysses asteroids.

There are only three major land routes into Belka from the west to this day: Two highways near the northern coastline, and an underground rail tunnel formerly operated by Grunder Industries that leads to a line that circumvents the Sudentor crater. The rail tunnel was acquired by General Resource after its takeover of the Grunder facilities in 2020, and is expected to be operational by 2022.

In a survey conducted by Gaze Magazine in 2001, the Seven Pillars of Belka placed second to the planet-fall of the Ulysses asteroids as the "Defining Moment of the 20th Century."

In the article, Engel Flight was briefly mentioned as a 'last gasp of resistance by the Belkan military against a tyranny that eventually drove them to ruin.' No names were ever given, and no mention was made of the flight in history books or popular media.

* * *

**OLT Annette Zweig**

**Zenith Operation Enterprises Recruitment Center**  
**Saint Ark, North Point**  
**24 November 1995**  
**1422 hrs.**

The 'recruiting' office of this company looked more like a hybrid of a storefront and a corporate human resources department than an actual military recruitment office. There were no patriotic posters or national flags. Instead, they had the occasional back-lit Z.O.E. logo posted here and there along off-white wallpaper to remind me that this was a company, along with the occasional picture of a garishly-red fighter aircraft in combat with a slogan about the 'future' to remind me that this company dealt in the private military.

At least they went to substantial lengths to keep the environment clean and professional, something I had to imitate as I walked in looking more like a business executive than a military pilot.

"So, First Lieutenant Annette Zweig, is it?" the interviewer began. Despite his glasses, suit and tie, his buzz-cut seemed to give away a possible military background as he pored through my 'resume.'

"Yes. People call me Anne," I replied. I chose not to give my own call sign, deciding to leave that to my past for good. I also dressed formally for the interview, though the collar of my business button-down felt a bit like a noose.

"You have some excellent credentials and references. We have quite a few Belkan pilots looking for work in this industry and we're glad to have someone with a record that stands out that isn't criminal."

"Thank you, sir."

"Of course, before we consider taking you on board, there is one thing we'd like to know...why do you believe we should hire you?"

"Because the world is changing," I said after some thought, "I believe I can help this company be at the forefront of that."

"How? How can you do that?" the interviewer asked with a pressing smile.

I thought about my answer for a moment. When I finally did answer, I gave my reply from the bottom of my heart.

* * *

**Room 1031  
Sudentor General Hospital**  
**Sudentor, Osea**  
**Two Days Earlier**

I found myself drifting in and out of consciousness for the first few days after I apparently died on the steps of Stier Castle. Everything, even my mind, was a dream-like blur. If I had finally reached the afterlife, heaven or hell, then I was sorely disappointed. There was no eternal torment or eternal happiness, just a strange mix of color and shapes...and what felt like an eternity to think and let the revelations of an eternity ago settle in.

When I did finally emerge back into the realm of the living in Sudentor General, it was hard to believe this was the very same world I left behind.

Summer had cooled into fall, but up here nobody could tell the difference. The memories of Operation Eden were still as fresh to many as the day the bombs went off, a moroseness hovering about the hospital and even the city itself in place of the radiation. It never seemed to stop raining over the city, and I never seemed to stop watching the rain pour, the Sudentor cityscape twinkling gently out of the rain-blurred window.

It wasn't for the lack of things to do. The local TV stations hadn't been fully restored since the EMP of the detonation just over the nearby hills fried their antennas on the range. The only stations consistently broadcasting were the international satellite networks. And the only one that could manage a 24-hour straight broadcast to this hospital was Voice of Osea, which constantly broadcast information on how 'North Oseans' could more easily avail of Osean Federation services.

Of course, I wasn't watching the rain out of regret over politics either.

Three months had passed since the Treaty of Lumen cut Belka in two. North Osea, as southern Belka was now called, was a protectorate and _de facto_ 57th State of the Osean Federation. That made me a _de facto_ prisoner of war in this very hospital.

Any Belkan that had a place of residence here was now considered Osean and encouraged to pick up new identifying documents supplied by the Osean government. However, members of the military were exempted. Those soldiers that weren't in jail for war crimes had until the end of the year to petition and gain citizenship, or move all the way around the north tip of the mountain range and back into North Belka. It was no relief to the families to know that they couldn't just hop right over the hills back to Belkan territory, as they would fall right into the nuclear crater on the opposite side.

They could also go around Ustio, but their safety wasn't guaranteed.

Meanwhile, Osean troops patrolled the streets below, sometimes transporting an outgoing patient to a local jail or an MP in for an impromptu interrogation.

They hadn't come for me, not yet.

And it wasn't for regret over failure.

The grandiose bomber flight, as it turned out, was a distraction to allow a single attacker aircraft loaded with a lightweight nuclear bomb to carry out its objective. It was a deception the BVK and their allies in High Command had planned for, knowing full well that their original aim would not go down well with the rest of their "regular" comrades. Despite the almost concert-like countrywide tours, the pilots that flew these aircraft were handpicked separate from the cheering crowds they gathered.

From what I could gather, the aircraft were all incinerated in the explosions. Maybe they knew they were on a suicide mission, or their immediate disintegration wouldn't give them time to be surprised when they realized it was. Whatever the case, it helped that the plotters already had seven fewer people to worry about.

Even now, the Gray Men were still taking care of loose ends - including the pilots and crewmen on the bomber flights themselves - to prevent anyone from testifying against them.

Although they couldn't save their precious National Workers' Party regime, reports regularly surfaced of Korps and Army soldiers in POW camps and jails having their comrades murdered or comittng suicide before they could testify. Going away for conspiracy over murdering their comrades was a small price to pay for undermining their prosecution for whatever grave crimes they may have committed. Records of anyone believed 'disloyal' were also being shredded and disposed of while the Allies weren't looking, so it would be as if they never existed.

I was lucky in that respect. Not only had I survived the blast, whoever had taken care of me in the interim made sure that I didn't pass under the eye of a vengeful bureaucrat that could inflict a protracted, painful death with a mere switch of the bottle linked to my intravenous drip.

Not that I could say the same for whoever could have survived from the Engel Flights. I hadn't heard anything from or about Gunther Heimeroth since that day. For a while, I could only hope that he had been killed in action...or at least assassinated painlessly. But death in any event was a preferable fate to having to live out the consequences, with the guilt and shame that followed.

Although the doctors said I should be thankful that my hair hadn't already fallen out from Stier Castle's giant stone bulk shielding me from the worst radiation and debris, I was only getting out of rehab today.

In all honesty, watching the rain just helped me pass the time.

I didn't have any plans for what happened after I got out. I still had a hand in the plot, and sooner or later someone on the Allied side would find that out. Maybe my family or a sympathetic government official would scoop me up and send me back to Drachenau where I could spend a few months of peace. But when the OCIA or Yuktobanian secret police did come to arrest me, I wasn't going to put up a fight. I would deserve my punishment, and my family would know that.

Watching the rain, as it turned out, helped me keep calm as I resigned myself to fate.

At least until I had a guest.

"Oberleutnant Zweig," he said to me when he came in. I did a double-take worthy of a horror movie, recognizing his voice before I noticed his appearance.

From his casual clothing and growing stubble, it was hard to tell that he even had membership in the military, let alone the Korps. But I recognized his face as the very same officer that arrested me and forced me to assassinate Colonel Buchner over B7R. He carried a large envelope in one arm.

"Relax, Lieutenant," the officer replied, gently waving his hand, "I'm not here on any official business. Well...it's not official anymore."

I stirred a bit in my place as he sat next to me. I slid slightly away from him, watching him intently in case he tried to pull a knife or any sort of assassination weapon on me.

"So...the war is already over," he began, trying to break the ice.

"How did you ever think that this would help us win?" I suddenly snapped, trying to contain as much anger as I could in a hushed tone of voice.

He didn't reply.

"There's nothing left for us here," I grumbled after a few moments.

"That, actually," he replied, "...is why I came to find you. As soon as I heard about what happened, you were the first person I thought of. I scoured every hospital to find you."

"Did the Allies hire you to arrest me?" I smirked. "Or are you here to clean up a loose end for your superiors?"

"Neither," he replied nonchalantly.

I raised an eyebrow. "So why did you try to find me?"

"Because I want to make things up with you," he replied, moving around to sit beside me. "And you're right, there is nothing left for us here."

"How are you going to do that then?" I asked almost sarcastically, "Are you going to get me diplomatic immunity?"

"Even if they clear you, there's nothing left to go back to. Everyone's trying to leave for greener pastures. Soldiers, scientists, CEOs, everyone that can't strike a profitable deal with the Allies over the natural resources."

"So you're going to get me out of the country," I snarled, "Great, now I'll be a fugitive."

"You know, _Oberleutnant_, when they briefed me about you at Neu Eisendorf, they talked about you being a bit of a free spirit," he explained, exasperated. "That's why I had to bring a lot of backup. Maybe it was just really, really bad timing, but I never knew you to be this...hopeless."

"Look where being 'a free spirit' got me!" I said with a clenched jaw, trying to hold back tears, "Look where it got all of us!"

"If it means anything, I just want you to hear me out on this," he replied. "I'm not going to force you to do anything, and you don't even have to trust me on that."

"Ah...hell," I replied, shaking my head, "If it'll pass the time."

"After..._what happened_..." Even in the BVK it seemed that only the most fanatical didn't refer to Operation Eden in solemnly hushed tones, "The superpowers are considering an arms reduction."

He said those last two words with pronounced sarcasm. It wasn't surprising that the two superpowers had found themselves on the same side practically by chance during the war. But after what happened on 6 June, even the Voice of Osea realized footage of anti-nuclear candlelight vigils made for juicy primetime.

"Bullshit," I replied, "They're not just going to kiss and make up."

"Of course not," he smirked in agreement, "It just means they want to take a less hands-on approach to their little proxy wars. It also means they'll need someone else to do their dirty work, and that's where all this leaking talent comes in."

"So we're going to become mercenaries then." Only a few months ago I would have said those words with a pronounced scorn. But now, I seemed curious about his offer. Even more so, I felt as if I'd already accepted the possibility.

"It's better than ending up in Osea or Yuktobania as an aggressor squadron, and definitely better than staying here. They're stripping our air force of everything but trainer jets and transports, and that's not counting our other armed services."

"And giving them away to their allies, no doubt." The thought of the Demon Lord flying my '004' Grabacr Berkut brought a small, twisted smile to my face.

"Or companies contracted to them. While I was in the Korps, I made a few connections with some people in the weapons and electronics industries in Hoffnung. After the Allies burned it to the ground, they took their money and started their own enterprises abroad."

"Hopefully someplace that isn't a complete hellhole."

Ustio, as it happened, was an exception in the mercenary market. Most mercenaries saw action in Southern Verusea, where the Yuktobanians had waged wars on-and-off against neighbors that pissed them off for whatever reason the old Communists could come up with. While the Yukes with their vaunted military institutions could provide all the manpower and weaponry their propaganda bureaus helped their people to muster, the smaller republics couldn't keep up even with generous helpings of Osean aid and training...as well as 'independent' arms sales.

Eventually the governments of these republics collapsed, leaving entire stockpiles of weaponry for anyone to pick up and use. Those that could somehow put up a working administration faced equally- or better-armed opposition and practically needed mercenaries to survive. The professional enlisted soldiers were the easiest to buy off, as almost anything paid better than a regular wage. But they desired foreign talent above all, as it meant they could fight anytime, anywhere, without any agenda to bind them.

Of course, risk didn't always correspond to reward. Even the official wages barely counted for subsistence in countries like those. They turned to other factions and the criminal underworld to help them reap what they thought were their rewards. That included money, cars, houses...and their pick of local women.

It wasn't as if I hadn't prepared for that eventuality with my survival training. But part of what had dissuaded me from even seriously considering mercenary work was this often well-founded fear of ending up on someone's lap instead of on the front line.

Still, I wasn't completely cynical. If the superpowers were really as genuine as they sounded about disarming, then maybe they could put the talent escaping from Belka for their own private enterprises to a more legitimate and reputable use. And at least there would be a place for people like me, who knew only how to fight.

"Usea have their quibbles but Saint Ark is far from a hellhole. The company is called Zenith Operation Enterprises, and they're doing research into autonomous UCAVs."

As a child I remember people talking about how someday the pilots themselves would become obsolete, and how combat operations would be done by computer programs with artificial intelligence. Of course, it was still the stuff of science fiction. The furthest people had come as of late were remote-controlled unmanned vehicles.

"If the aircraft are unmanned, then what do they need us for?"

"They've got a control panel just for you," he said, giving me a friendly nudge on the shoulder that completely lacked the chill of our first encounter. "Actually, they need real pilots to shape the programming. You'll be contracted wherever ZOE sends you, and when you get back to Saint Ark they'll take the black box for analysis."

"So..." I said half-sarcastically, "How's that different from regular mercenary life?"

"Unlike your average mercenary, these are legitimate companies with legitimate job security," he replied, "If this industry takes off, you can build a real resume and take your pick of the choicest contracts, even fly your own fighter. Worse comes to worse and you haven't gotten yourself into too much trouble, you can fall back on a cushy commissioned officer pension back home. None of this grunt aggressor stuff."

I took a long sigh. Beside me was a person I knew wasn't above doing virtually anything for his country only a few months months ago. Now he was sitting there casually saying that abandoning such loyalties, however extreme, was the only way out of this situation.

Of course, after 'what happened,' it wouldn't be hard to understand why all but the most fanatical would want to renounce their pasts so easily. I knew I had, or wanted to. And it certainly wouldn't be hard to understand why such offers were much more tempting than before.

The former Korpsman then opened up the envelope and removed a red brochure from it, along with some plane tickets. He placed them on the bed next to me.

"The flight leaves tomorrow, the doctors say you're free to go whenever you want. When you get to Saint Ark, go to their office and tell them Friedrich Mahler referred you."

I smirked and half-joked, "Assuming I haven't been hunted down by the FBI."

"Speaking of which, you'll need a resume to start with," he said, handing me the rest of the envelope's contents: a folder bearing Belkan Air Force markings. "I had someone from Records clean up your data and process your honorable discharge papers."

"Oh?"

"The Allies want to bring anyone that had dealings with the Korps to criminal trial. I knew they'd come after you because of me. Fortunately, all they'll find on you is a clean slate, just another former Luftwaffe pilot looking for a job. If they can find anything at all."

Three months ago I would have wanted to personally throttle him. But as I went through the data, I couldn't find anything that referred to what I did over B7R that May, or what I tried to do over Waldreich a few days later. It listed my assignment to Grabacr as 'temporary' but it was me that verified a 'deserting Colonel' kill to Ashley Bernitz, not the other way around. As kill verification was standard Luftwaffe procedure, I escaped responsibility on a technicality.

Most of all, there was no mention of my assignment to "Engel Flight." Apparently, I was on a transport run that took off from Hammersmark but never made it to its destination before the EMP of the nuclear blast forced us to crash land in the Waldreichs. The 'million-mark' injuries I suffered from that crash put me out of commission for the rest of the war. All of it had been diligently re-compiled through the same bureaucracy that kept our records, which meant only the people that directly edited it would know that it was edited.

"Why are you doing all of this?"

"Because..." he said, biting his lip and taking a deep breath, "I'm sorry. I didn't even know what we were getting into until it was too late. I forced you into this, so this is the best I can do to prevent it from coming back to you."

I looked out the window. The rain had blurred the window, leaving only the drops visible as they slid down the pane. "You know, it's funny. I'm not really even angry. It's not like we changed the course of things. Or tried to."

I thought about Huckebein the Raven for a moment. He was dead, another casualty of the war. He couldn't tell any tales about what he tried to do any louder than the actions he tried to prevent.

"The world is always changing anyway, Anne." he said as he got up and straightened himself out, "People like you, even the Demon Lord live on because you change with it."

"What about you? You're still here."

"I already wrote my own destiny a long time ago," he replied with a smile as he approached the doorway, "Goodbye, Lieutenant."

Almost on cue, an Allied MP walked up to him in the hallway. They talked briefly, resulting in Mahler quietly bowing his head in shame before the MP handcuffed him and led him away.

I continued to watch the door for a few more minutes, but the MP never came back. Instead, a nurse came in with a clean, folded barracks uniform and jacket. She informed me that I was free to check out at any time, and that I had to go downstairs to fix up my paperwork.

The rain started to relent a bit as I stepped out onto the hospital's driveway. Were it not for the presence of Osean Humvees and their patrols occasionally prowling the hospital grounds and the street in front, it almost seemed like business as usual in Sudentor.

I crossed into the parking lot toward the bus shelter on the other side, my head bowed forward slightly as I was immediately drenched with rain. Even though I kept Mahler's folder tucked tightly within my jacket, I still wasn't entirely sure that leaving my family and what was left of my country behind was the best thing for me.

Somewhere in the middle of that small expanse of automobiles and asphalt, I looked up at the clouds as the rain poured, glaring from the raindrops landing in my eyes. The rain appeared to be relenting, and the fading sunlight slowly weaved in between the gaps. Two fighters in patrol formation glided softly across one of those holes before diving back into the clouds.

I thought about who might be piloting them, and aptly enough it dawned on me.

Without agendas or borders to adhere to, they were probably more free than the people they fought for. And although they still had to follow orders, they had the freedom to choose who to follow orders from and how to carry those orders out. Whatever I had left of my code of ethics would be my advantage more than an impediment. It would not only boost my company's reputation, but add to my own prestige.

There was also an almost sadistic pleasure to be found at beating the Demon Lord at his own game, wherever he was now. With his job in Belka finished, he was probably off looking for a client that paid better than some tiny failing nation-state. Maybe he was savoring the luxury in a Las Venturas casino or a beach-side racetrack in Ridge City. Maybe ZOE had hired him too, and now he would have to compete with me for the paychecks.

Suddenly, living well really did seem like the best revenge.

I smiled as cumulus clouds slowly puffed over the gap in the sky, realizing that a half-forgotten dream was now closer to my grasp than ever before.

* * *

**Ark Aero Flight 331**  
**Somewhere over the Arctic Ocean**  
**21 November 1995**  
**1810 hrs. OET**

"Good evening passengers, this is your captain speaking. We will be dimming the lights to allow our passengers to sleep. Reading lights are available for individual seats, accessible from the control panel..."

I stirred a bit in my seat, getting a view out of the window next to me. Economy class in an Airbus felt only marginally more comfortable than a military transport seat. The only real difference was I wasn't strapped in as tightly, and I could catch a movie if I leaned just enough to see the screens.

All I could see under the cloudbank was the vast expanse of the northern Usean Arctic. Giant glaciers floated like cracked marble on an almost pitch-black ocean.

The sun had almost completed its eternal sunset up in the Arctic, but the stars were already coming out to shine as the moon turned the cloudbank into its own ocean in the sky. Up here, there were no fighters or bombers, and no land to fight over. There was no rain or haze or even smoke.

The account I had saved my military paychecks to had been frozen along with everyone else in the service due to "Allied investigations." Whatever I had left in my old savings that I hadn't already marked for food and accommodation was just enough to get me something to wear for my interview, along with an extra ticket back to Dinsmark in case the interview fell through.

I almost felt I was about to embark on the Osean Dream, however cynical even most Oseans themselves regarded it. What I had in carry-on right now were really my only possessions, and I couldn't afford to have them stolen. My luggage also contained the "resume" Mahler gave me - much of my original Army records - along with my identification.

Tomorrow would be a new day, a new start.

And I had all I needed.

* * *

**Saint Ark, North Point**  
**22 November 1995**

As Mahler promised, the mention of his name as a reference got me straight past the reception desk of Zenith Operation Enterprises and into the interviewing room. The interviewer seemed impressed with my record, and had eventually come to the same question he asked every potential recruit.

"...there is one thing we would like to know. Why should we hire you?"

"Because the world is changing. I believe I can help this company be at the forefront of that."

"How? How can you do that?" the interviewer followed up with a pressing smile.

Mahler's reminder of my own near-death revelation caused me to wonder if the nuclear bombs didn't just change how the world thought, but also the way the world worked...and why we waged war.

The nukes were the last hurrah of a dying age. The war hadn't erased the differences that divided us, but it did connect the world in a way never witnessed until now. It was true that the lines we drew ourselves were as fluid and fluctuating as the people that sought and held power wanted them to be. But with everyone so aware of each other as they were now, these lines were no longer as obvious as the borders on maps drawn by ideologies.

People would continue to live, to fight, and to die. But now there was only one way that anybody would survive.

"By helping you adapt. Aircraft will change, flying styles will change, and the only way to survive and prosper is to change with them. I believe I can offer such an adaptability in combat."

I knew I wasn't the only one that came to that realization. Every Belkan, Osean, Ustian, Yuktobanian, every person that bore witness to what happened must have somehow realized it too. And we would all change in our own ways, ways that would bring us to conflicts so similar and yet so different to the ones we fought before.

"Well, Anne, I think that's enough," the recruiter said with a salesman's smile, standing up to shake my hand. "Welcome to Z.O.E."

"Thank you, sir," I replied, shaking his hand. He then sat back down and took out a series of forms from the desk drawer, placing them on top.

"We'll need you to fill these out, of course," he explained, "We'll have transport pick you up from your current place of residence in Saint Ark tomorrow morning. After that, you'll begin your, shall we call it a refresher course. Basic training, simulations and all. If your records are anything to go by, you should have your wings back by the end of next month."

He called a secretary in to have my records photocopied for their archive before I left to let in the next prospect hire.

For the first time in what seemed more like years than months, I felt genuinely satisfied. I really felt like I had accomplished something that wouldn't end up another victim of history this time around.

And for once, I really thought that this time it would last forever.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Dinsmark, Belka**  
**June 2015**

Every reporter had to draw the line of disbelief somewhere. When Annette mentioned being hired by ZOE, I drew that line hard.

Z.O.E was a private military company hired by the Usean military leadership during their rebellion in 1998. Their unmanned aircraft nearly proved themselves equal to the Scarface STFS they battled above the skies of Usea, including the first known combat sorties of EASA's XFA-27A and Grunder Industries' ADF-01 Falken. The emerging rivalry between Neucom and GR had its roots in their predecessors.

Annette, however, probably realized that as well. After brunch, we went back over to her apartment, where she let me wait in the living room while she got dressed for work.

Her apartment was minimally yet exquisitely furnished. It wasn't hard to tell she'd earned quite a bit from her travails as a mercenary, though the two years before the Usean Rebellion wasn't nearly enough to account for it all.

When she got out of her bedroom, in a crisp business suit, she carried a small deposit box with her. She laid it on the coffee table and opened it.

Inside it was the very folder given to her by Friedrich Mahler, its contents now supplemented by her personal documents from ZOE. Many of them had started to brown with age, but that didn't stop her from letting me borrow them for a bit.

"Why would you want to keep these?" I asked in disbelief as I went through every page.

"Apart from records purposes? You could say it reminds me of who I am," she replied, putting the folder back into its shelf under her comptuer table. "My name may be just a detail now. But not the things I've done or tried to do. What we do makes us who we are, and the name is just, how you Oseans call it...window dressing."

"But are you really-" I said, not wanting to offend her.

She didn't seem disturbed at all though. "All right, if you really want proof..."

She took out her wallet and pulled out a bright blue General Resource business card belonging to her new identity as Margareta Kepler. She then took out a pen from her purse and wrote a six-digit number on the back.

"Go to Stier Castle Museum. You'll know exactly where to use this," she replied with a knowing smile. "If you excuse me now though, I have to get to work."

It was a mystery I would have to hold off for another day. The underground art exhibit I was originally tasked to cover would start in an hour, and I needed to rush if I was going to make it in time.

She understood, of course. She too had to attend a meeting at the General Resource complex outside of Dinsmark that happened to be an hour after mine, but General Resource's compound was much further away from Dinsmark than the museum. The high-speed Dinsmark-Hoffnung Express that GR had built for that purpose made up for enough of the time difference that she found herself in just as much a rush as I was.

"It's no problem, Albert," she told me rather cheerfully as she finished packing her briefcase, "Franck's had me fly all over Usea last month to help set up this new security company of his. It's nice to be able to finally find time for memoirs, so to speak."

"It just sounds too good to be true, coming back from the dead and all."

"I'm sure you've seen your share of surprises too, with your reporting on what happened during the 2010 war." she replied, pulling out a cellphone and checking it for messages. "Don't think we haven't read your articles over here as well," she added with a satirical glare and a raised eyebrow as we left her apartment and headed downstairs.

I gave a slightly fearful chuckle, remembering what I went through to have those articles published, let alone written. Were it not for the influence of the OBC, I would have ended up in witness protection with the rest of the Razgriz or worse, sprawled across an apartment hallway with a bullet in the back of my head.

"And by the way, you can hold onto those documents until we meet again in a couple of days," she added with a soft smile, "I trust you'll keep them out of the wrong hands."

* * *

**Stier Castle, Belka**  
**The Following Day**  
**1354 hrs.**

In the months following the nuclear explosions, Stier Castle was rapidly converted into a makeshift hospital run by members of the International Red Diamond that found themselves marooned on the Belkan side of the blast radius, along with the nuns of a Waldreich convent on their way back from Sudentor.

The Stier Mission, as it was called, took in victims of the nuclear strikes from Waldreich and Stiergarten and helped transport them to Sudentor regardless of their nationality or occupation. They operated under dire conditions, and many died despite brave efforts to keep a continuous flow of supplies from Sudentor to Stier Castle, and patients going the other way. Although the two destinations were no longer technically in the same country, the Allies weren't so reluctant to let International Red Diamond vehicles pass through their checkpoints after a cursory check.

The transport convoys garnered the nickname of the "Blue Doves" in reference to the namesake of the fairytale said to have taken place in Stier Castle. Much less famous today than the demon Razgriz that shares its pages, the Blue Dove was said to have been rescued by the Princess, and when she fell ill, embarked on a quest to save her life in turn. But when it came back having retrieved the magical fruit it thought would save her, it found the Princess had already died. Nevertheless, the Blue Dove died peacefully in her arms, knowing that at least neither of them died for nothing.

Even though many of the staff and patients recovered by the Stier Mission died in the years following the blast, the Stier Mission was recognized during its time for at least providing a beacon of hope in a part of the world that had thought it snuffed by clouds of radioactive ash.

The tree that is said to have grown from the magical fruit was said to have gotten a view of the Princess' room, where the Mission symbolically set up their makeshift administration office. But that room faced the crater, and whatever vegetation grew on that side was very likely suffocated, if not immediately uprooted from the blast.

After the World With No Boundaries terrorist incidents, the Mission was placed under the auspices of ANMIBEL. With the resources of the AN at their disposal, the Mission continued until 1997 when newly-reconstructed infrastructure enabled survivors of the blasts seeking treatment to travel directly to the hospitals in major cities.

Once the last member of the Mission left, the castle, Stiergarten, and even the memories of the Stier Mission were abandoned to the nuclear wasteland.

In 2011, following the end of the Circum-Pacific War, the radiation hazard lines were redrawn back to within a few kilometers of the crater. Stier Castle was reopened and Lake Edelwasser, although still dead, could now accomodate tourist boats. The AN's Cultural Heritage Organization sponsored the creation of the Seven Pillars Memorial Museum, dedicated to those that lost their lives in the nuclear blasts. Many surviving residents of Stiergarten and their descendants also began to return, even if only for vacation.

A portion of this Museum was dedicated to the Stier Mission. Here patrons can access digitized copies of the IRD's records for the patients that were treated - and more often than not, died there.

It was at one of these kiosks that I decided to enter the number Zweig gave me on the Patient Search screen.

And when the computer finally blipped its lone result onto the screen, I found the lead that eluded my mentor Brett a decade ago. I pulled out Lt. Zweig's folder, and filtered to the paper that showed her photo identification. The faces indeed matched, at least in terms of age.

She was injured but not disfigured in the photo on the screen, taken probably after she'd regained consciousness. Her face was clearly disillusioned from the way she seemed to look hopelessly into whatever camera had taken this. Alive, but wishing she wasn't.

The screen only showed her basic details below the picture:

_OLT (1LT) Annette Zweig  
Pilot, Belkan Air Force_  
_Born 26 August 1967_  
_Admitted prior to Stier Mission_  
_Transferred to Sudentor 19 July 1995_

There was no date of death. Although she proved she had lived through that, it still couldn't explain what she did with Z.O.E. in the interim. That was something we'd have to remember the next time we met. In the meantime, my mind was almost preoccupied with what she told me as she left.

"How could you live with yourself, with everything changing?" I asked her on the sidewalk in front of her apartment as we left.

"It's hard to explain," she said as she outstretched her arm to flag down an approaching taxi, "We can't control everything that changes us, but we can control what we do about them. And we all eventually find a way to deal with them. See you tomorrow, Albert."

The Nightingale's song didn't end with the Belkan War. Neither, as it turned out, did her grudge against the Demon Lord.

Although I was convinced that what she told me about her past in the Belkan War was the truth, it didn't completely explain how she ended up back in Belka 20 years later.

The path she would take over the years that followed would not only define her as I met her that summer morning, but also that of the entire world. Indeed, she had taken part in its change more than even she believed.

* * *

**On Wings of Nightingales - End**

_A/N: And so ends Nachtigall's story for the time being. I currently have the first chapter of the next saga as well as the 'interlude' written up, where I go from there remains to be seen. And if you're wondering why I get so many of these up so quickly, it's because I write a lot of the material concurrently with each other so when I upload them I do so in a bunch of mostly-completed 'batches.'_**  
**


	10. Interlude: Fine Dining

_Original story based on characters and material created by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them.

* * *

_**Interlude  
**

_Port Patterson (ACP) - The South Leasath Rebuilding Committee announced today that efforts to restore Port Patterson to full operation would be temporarily delayed after an attack by remnants of the Aurelian Defense Force._

_According to official reports, a combined attack from the Army and Air Defense Force resulted in the destruction of several civilian cargo ships and ferries docked in the harbor. The attack was then intercepted and repelled by the Leasath Naval Arm and Air Force. The SLRC reports several dozen civilians dead from the attacks, and hundreds more are wounded._

_"Their resistance is brave, but in vain," SLRC spokesperson Armando Gomez told reporters at a press conference in Griswall. "Their only option is to slaughter civilians in order to intimidate the population while we try to rebuild."_

_However, the Aurelian Government-in-Exile at Cape Aubrey has claimed that the targets of their attack were the Leasath Naval Arm warships stationed in Port Patterson. They have denied any attacks on civilian vessels, and insist that the city is now under their control.  
_

_When asked to confirm this, Gomez replied, "The city has always been Leasath's. And soon it will be greater than anything Aurelia ever built on it."  
_

_Remnants of the ADF are also reported to have staged attacks on Puna Base, located in the country's western plains. Very little is currently known about the ADF's remaining offensive capability since the Air Defense Force's massive defeat over Cape Aubrey last week._

_The Leasath Armed Forces has also repeatedly maintained that they have a perimeter around Cape Aubrey, offering the government-in-exile a chance to surrender before a final strike. However, that situation also remains unknown._

* * *

**Griswall, Aurelia**  
**Late October 2020**  
**2137 hrs.**

He isn't here. Or she isn't here. And from where I'm standing, I either probably missed them because they've either left or died.

This sinking gut feeling of disappointment lingers as I make my way down the stairs of this modest hotel to the taxi waiting to shuttle me to the Gaiuss Tower. The air outside has been getting warmer as of late, not so much due to the approaching Southern Hemisphere summer but more from the emissions of the military vehicles constantly patrolling the streets.

Just as well, my taxi isn't so much a regular cab as it is 'official transport.' The upper mid-range Romny-made sedan has probably been forcibly "requisitioned" from a high-end rental company to chauffeur me and other journalistic dignitaries to my destination. The flag of Osea flies from small poles attached to the car's front wheelarches, almost like I was an ambassador. It easily betrays their intent to pamper me, especially since Leasath was one of those countries that railed against imperialist Osea on an almost daily basis. Now, the last thing they need is some journalist calling _them_ out on their imperialistic intentions, which they have also made abundantly clear over the past two weeks.

The Leasathian Army have pushed the Aurelians back to the northwest coast after only ten days of fighting. Griswall fell quickly, after a valiant defense ultimately proved futile, and the Leasathians are now conducting cleanup operations of the remaining pockets of resistance. Other South Osean countries are offering asylum for the Aurelian leadership, but none of the leaders are budging despite the circumstances.

The last complete unit of the Air Defense Force had been annihilated in one fell swoop by their airborne fortress _Gleipnir_ less than a week ago. It seemed a fitting vengeance for the AADF shooting down its sister ship earlier in the week with experimental Neucom aircraft. I'm particularly disappointed because I'm certain there was only one pilot that could have evaded such a weapon like the _Gleipnir_ used...and from what I've read so far, nobody from the Aurelian squadron did.

Yet amidst the conflict and all the disappointment, everyone still finds the time and effort to look nice. Not necessarily 'formal' nice as I'm going in my journalist get-up, but nice enough to fit into the event I'm headed to with my minder in tow on the backseat beside me.

I don't exactly have a choice with my minder. Leasath haven't completely bugged everyone's conversations yet, so actual minders breathing down your neck would have to suffice. Each journalist is assigned at least one over-enthusiastic army grunt in civilian clothing, their military profession betrayed by the small, shiny medal they wear over their hearts and the green-and-red flag pin on their lapels. What they earned that medal for is beyond even me.

These minders not only guide us to these official events, but also "peer review" the articles the military approves us to cover to make sure we don't say anything subversively sarcastic about their glorious new annexation. They are especially finicky about their terminology and history for Aurelia. Apparently, Aurelia used to be Leasath's southern province until a Cold War rebellion of the local ultra-rich sponsored by the OCIA and neighboring South Osean dictatorships led to its secession, along with a "blockade" of the border that suffocated northern Leasath into civil war. Standard Osean history books would say that the Aurelians were a majority oppressed by a minority within their own state, and when the minority had decided to persecute them for finding new prosperity, they decided to take matters into their own hands.

The real history, as was always the case, ran somewhere down the middle. But now that I was in "Leasath" again, compromise was the last thing on my mind.

The occupation mood has already settled in at Griswall, and the newly-created South Leasath Rebuilding Committee has already drawn up grand plans for molding Aurelia into the proper Leasath image. Everywhere my official transports have taken me, it seems there's always some eager high-ranking cadre rattling off about how he intends to build a great and productive edifice to Leasathian pride over a random residential block or small shopping center. One of my favorites was the Griswall Neucom Stadium, which that particular cadre wanted to remake into a sister stadium of the (bigger!) one in Leasath.

At least I could somehow agree with him that whoever designed this albeit modern stadium's outer facade was probably addicted to something.

That and the cushy rides allow me to finish the naps interrupted by the minders knocking at my door.

Ever since the invasion force left Griswall I've been bored out of my mind. The internet connection has been restored, but other than international media sites anything remotely Aurelian, even tourist guides have been blocked. Like the internet, the only operational TV station that isn't an international news network is Leasath's state-run channel. And with the war pretty much over, the international news networks have moved on to the latest set of Vinewood movie awards nominations. Being dragged out to events like these are all I have to look forward to until they reopen the airport for my flight back to Oured. And hell, even I can't pass up free food.

There is little traffic on the way to the monolithic Gaiuss Tower, home to Leasath's Central Command. Well, the East Tower, anyway. The West Tower and its restaurant is reserved for special locations like these. Ironic how a symbol of Aurelia's peace is now a monument to Leasathian military conquest.

As we get out at the Gaiuss Tower's front driveway, my minder is all smiles - almost like a butler - as he swiftly ushers me out of the car, past the APCs guarding the front entrance to tell me that escape is futile, across the brightly-lit lobby and into the elevator to take me all the way up the West Tower. It's hard to keep my distance from my minder in a relatively tight space, but at least the elevator's speed keeps me from getting too uncomfortable as it gets to the top in less than a minute, at which it opens to reveal the front door for a large restaurant that occupies the entire 100th floor of the West Tower.

Once a popular meeting location for conferences and weddings, Premier Diego Gaspar Navarro has converted the Ciel Restaurant into his personal banquet hall, opened "to all the people of Leasath, not just the elite."

By 'the people,' of course, Navarro only refers to the journalists he can round up to directly listen to his speeches about the _Gleipnir's_ power. They range not just from big-name newspapers and magazines, but even the hottest tabloids looking to spice up their pages with a glimpse into the life of a real dictator. Not that they'd say he's a dictator out loud. The only other people here apart from him and the press entourages are their minders and his closest cadres from every branch of the Leasath military.

Before I even step through the front door of the Ciel, I am 'treated' to a speech emanating from a podium at the back of the dining area instead of some relaxing piano ambience. My minder takes it as a cue to pass me an index card, which I reflexively pocket with disgust.

Navarro has already begun his victory speech for the night. As always, he mentions the _Gleipnir's_ supremacy over the "shiny toys bought by Aurelia's greed," easily consigning the memory of its sister ship _Gandr_ to the memory hole. He then boasts of how the crew, consisting of people from every walk of life in Leasath, worked together to deal the single fatal blow to the opportunistic Aurelian squads.

He's made elaborate speeches like these practically every night since he first walked into Gaiuss Tower, and they've become so predictable that I felt that even I could write them myself.

Which is a good thing in a way, as it lets me enjoy the food and catch up on some reading. Not that the latter is as impressive as the former. The only two newspapers left on the rack are a fresh copy of the Leasath People's Daily and an already-worn copy of the Oured Tribune. The People's Daily still has the printing press creases that indicate that nobody's even touched it since it got delivered, let alone read.

The Leasath Army has already reprogrammed the local printing presses to churn out truckloads of these propaganda sheets barely two weeks into the war. Of course, even though they have access to better quality paper here, it's still easy to tell it apart for its extremely bold and propaganda-laden front pages.

The international papers still find their way into the delivery routes though, for good reason. Navarro wants his audience of foreign journalists - myself included - to take the news of his army's victories back with us to our home countries, even us Oseans. In return, he wants to know about it to fuel his ego.

Once I pick up the Tribune I immediately start scouring for news of the war. From what I can decipher from its small column in the corner of the World News section, I can actually assume that the Aurelian Air Defense Force has actually helped the army take back Port Patterson. That was all she - or rather - my Oured Tribune counterpart wrote, and I return the paper before grabbing a plate of pasta and a can of soda from the buffet table. I watch as most of the gathered guests converged at a long table opposite from where Navarro spoke.

After his nightly speeches, Navarro brings some of his cadres up for a brief "press conference" before letting the guests enjoy the food. The questions, of course, are all expertly written by the propaganda department on index cards like the one I just received. In fact, the questions probably sound more professional than the responses. Although he had a quota for the minimum number of questions asked, he liked to at least appear to give the impression that the new South Leasath would still have a free press.

Fortunately for me, my minder is currently preoccupied at the bar to "encourage" me to write my question down on my trusty notepad as the others were doing with their partners.

I want none of it at all, and decide my way to the window instead.

The view of Griswall from the Ciel looking down at the city and its ringed wall, built by the pre-Esapino civilizations and claimed by locals to be perfectly circular - would fuel anyone's ego. And as I look up at the starry sky, it seemed like even the phases of the moon were at odds with those of the northern hemisphere. Of course, it was at least a better view than below, where the Army had only ordered the city's main roads, hotels and landmarks lit, like a laser grid.

That the major papers relegated coverage of the war itself so harshly after the initial victories meant that Navarro's wining and dining of the press had started to pay off. A Usean reporter I had befriended during an international conference in San Adrian was actually more fascinated with the glass of wine in his hand than the press conference. He always fancied himself a bit of a connoisseur, and was eager to show off the knowledge he probably looked up on the internet.

Anything is more fascinating than yet another of Navarro's press conferences, I figure as I chow down.

According to him, one glass of the extremely rare bottle of Stiergarten 1994 on the table beside him is roughly equivalent to more than a decade of an average Leasathian citizen's salary. The years of civil war, which probably predated the end of the Circum-Pacific War itself, had left Leasath as impoverished as parts of Sotoa. I couldn't even get myself to have a taste, feeling guilty over how what was effectively a historical artifact was desecrated for casual consumption.

In that guilt, however, I never expect to find inspiration.

A waiter conversing with that reporter then admits that the Ciel's wine selection never included anything before vintage 2015. This could only have meant that Navarro had acquired it with his own money...money that also oiled the Leasath war machine for years.

I begin to ask myself...where is it coming from? Where is it going, and why? Surely hosting a banquet at the Ciel this often must mean little more than pocket change for Navarro who, like most of Leasath's civil warlords, must have accumulated quite a fortune. It turns out to be a great distraction from the festival of propaganda going on practically next to me as I finish my plate. But listening to this rehearsed question-and-answer session might distract me even more.

I quietly make my way to the restroom to think up a plan away from the watchful eyes of the security cameras and the minders. Before long, my idle mind conjures up a plan to expose the money flow in an action movie-style plot that ends in the International Criminal Court. But mostly, I just wanted an excuse to get away from this charade and get some sleep.

It's not as if I have anything else to do.

I peer out of the restroom and spot my minder at the bar, chatting up one of the bartenders. She looks like she'd definitely rather be someplace else if Navarro's boys weren't tipping everyone so generously. I walk out toward him, a little stumble in my step.

It's quite easy to convince him that I'm drunk, after all he seems to be about the only one more drunk in the hotel than I am. The hard part is asking him to take me back to my hotel, rather than out to one of the nightclubs-turned-soldiers' hangouts. But in the end, he complies out of 'protecting journalistic integrity' and before long, the two of us are back in the elevator, on our way down to the lobby.

In the 45 seconds it takes for me to head back down it seems my fear keeps my fake drunken stupor almost too convincing, as my minder constantly wants to have the elevator shut down to fondle me in place of the bartender girl. He also keeps offering me a drink from the bottle he's brought out with him. I turn my head away, pleading repeatedly that "I can barely see, how am I supposed to write for you!"

The lobby and the official taxi waiting at the driveway wasn't a welcome sight, and the cold night air threatens - fortunately in vain - to sober me out of my charade.

The ride back to the hotel consists of even more drunken conversation (which increasingly switches to the continent's native Esapino) and attempted flirting complimented with a bit of song every now and then. By the time we reach my hotel, even I'm convinced that I'm drunk.

"Here, I want you to have this," he says, handing me the bottle he kept clenched in one hand as I get out. "A gift from our people to the citizens of Osea for finally lending an ear to our troubles," he adds, clearly sarcastically repeating the propaganda.

Quite a bit of wine dribbled from his mouth over the course of the trip, making him look a bit like a vampire under the street lights. It's pitiful, but somehow apt. Halloween is supposed to be around the corner, but the occupation forces have already taken all the treats. In fact, their enforced blackouts make the city look almost haunted.

I wait for the car to disappear around a corner before taking a good look at the bottle.

One look at the label quickly and finally scares me sober.

The label on the bottle clearly reads Stiergarten 1994. I hadn't noticed it until now, but this was the very same bottle from the restaurant, and my minder was very likely intoxicated off the contents.

I felt both furious at him and sorry at him as the taxi pulled away, leaving me on the doorstep of my hotel. To me, the bottle may as well have been full of blood...or once full, anyway. The grunt had practically emptied the damn thing on the way here. I want to see it simply as him getting drunk off the horrific bloodshed of the nuclear explosions already a quarter-century ago, and the vengeance their instigators nearly unleashed upon the world more than once.

I raise the bottle to smash it against the sidewalk...only to suddenly stop in midair.

He was only a single soldier, a leaf on the smallest branch of the military tree. Like many Leasathians recruited at the end of the Civil War, he probably joined the Army just to keep his stomach full after the chaos left the country destitute. He probably didn't even know where Stiergarten was, or what made the 1994 vintage so valuable in the first place. Even a ride in a luxury car was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he would try to savor before he was very likely punished for stealing from Navarro's personal stash. Whenever a journalist caused trouble, they were quietly deported. The minders, well, they weren't so lucky.

It is on this sidewalk, my arm raised to smash a bottle on the pavement, that my inspiration finally transforms into a clearly defined mission.

I race up to my room and change my clothes to something to something that would help me blend in to the local crowd. I stumble upon the index card my minder gave me as I transfer my stuff to my new wardrobe. Within seconds, the card and its scripted question are confetti in a trash can, and the empty bottle resting beside my laptop to inspire me further.

Navarro continues to exude so much confidence in his military's might that he's actually set the curfew at 1 in the morning as a pretext for, to recall his exact words, "reinstating the freedoms that the new citizens of Leasath shall enjoy once this conflict ends." He's even gone so far as to prohibit the use of tanks and large-bore artillery within the city walls. It's a ploy, of course, to keep potential dissidents out in the open so he can track them.

That includes me.

As I step out of the hotel, now definitely sobered up, I make it my mission to get to the root of this money trail once and for all. It is no longer the product of an idle mind, but an obligation I have to fulfill as a journalist.

This wouldn't be the first time I watched a lust for profit do horrible things to people on both sides of the firing line. But this time I was deep inside enemy lines and much closer to the heart of their operations. There would be many more soldiers loyal to their 'mission' than those that could acquire the information I need for a 'token fee'.

Ironically, it is this sense of danger instead of the news of the Aurelian victory at Port Patterson that renews my hope that maybe I could finally meet the survivor I came here to find.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	11. Same Shit, Different Day

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**Blaze of Glory (Soldier)  
****Chapter 1: Same Shit, Different Day**  


_"You can't say civilization doesn't advance - for in every war, they kill you in a new way." - Will Rogers_

**AFB GR-Sand Island, Osea**  
**August 2017**

Peace. An ambition cherished by many, yet realized by few. At the most it's merely the calm between storms.

I never would have thought that I would come back to Sand Island so disappointed, and that the person I was here to meet would feel the same way.

It's been almost seven years to the day when I first arrived on this quiet island between the Ceres and Pacific Oceans. In the three months that followed I watched as five young pilots brought down a vengeful conspiracy to bring the world to annihilation.

I can still remember where I was when the SOLG's magnificent explosion over Oured Bay woke the city like a second sun. A helicopter had lifted me out of the Ceres Ocean along with the survivors of the Kestrel, and I was already typing out my "war diaries" of my days with the Razgriz in the Oured Journal's Oured Bureau before I'd even dried off. Everyone in the office gathered around the window and we all stood agape at the spontaneous fizzle of the orbital gun's warheads harmlessly in the sky.

For once, it seemed like world peace was at hand.

But this early optimism faded as the decade began to draw on.

The withdrawal of Osean troops from Yuktobania went off with little complication, and Harling and Nikanor's governments pledged billions to rebuild the infrastructure and other projects destroyed in their brief but terrifying conflict. But the trust that the two countries built over the past 30 years, from the first "cultural initiatives" that built the first bridges of diplomacy during the Cold War to the Space Bridge project had been irreversibly marred.

The distrust expanded to the global economy as countries found themselves thinking twice before doing business with Osea and Yuktobania, further deepening the recession triggered by Ulysses and Erusea's invasions. The environment of disarmament ironically left fewer troops to spare for the Assembly of Nations' already fragile peacekeeping missions, barely masked by the sharp decline in veto usage by the two countries.

In 2015, full-scale war finally broke out on the northern continent of Anea, between Emmeria and Estovakia.

Estovakia's government, which barely held itself together after Ulysses, finally collapsed in 2011. The civil war that followed was fueled by massive weapons shipments shipped in from Yuktobania and fleeing Belkan talent, reaching their height during the short-lived days of the Yuktobanian military junta. The underwater carrier Hrimfaxi guarded these shipments from foreign interference before it was assigned to protect the mainland during Osea's invasion.

When the Emmerians defeated the Generals' regime in 2016 their survivors turned to insurgency, attracting sympathizers from all over the world.

They named themselves the Valahia, after a lawless province that straddled the dictatorship of Cerdaristan and other West Verusean countries. Their numbers included separatists, insurgents, ex-special forces and anyone that saw the renewed superpowers' peace as just a cover for leaving them to the mercy of proxy puppetstrings and corporate expolitation. Their debut on the world stage was marked with coordinated suicide attacks on airports in Yuktobania and Verusa. Within a matter of weeks they were staging widespread terrorist attacks on civilian infrastructure and organizing an army that were threatening to bring chaos on a global scale.

Although their leader Nicolae Dumitrescu, a disgruntled ex-Cerdari general, didn't mince words with his anti-capitalist diatribes, the sheer magnitude of these attacks left many wondering where they got the money to do so.

Worse yet, many also wondered if the superpowers would find the resources, let alone the goodwill to take on a global security risk.

Rather than go back on their promises of disarmament, the three superpowers ratified the Canerd Accord in November 2016, laying out a wide-ranging framework for private military companies to intervene against the Valahia on the scale of a national military operation. To prevent abuse, they planned for these anti-Valahia operations to be organized under the direct supervision of the ANIPF: the Assembly of Nations Independent Peacekeeping Force, led by commanders from national professional armies. If global disarmament would create a vacuum, the superpowers had decided that the AN would be there to ensure the responsible use of power.

But the use of what were effectively mercenaries to delegate that responsibility, however much they were reigned in by the AN, raised more concerns than they quelled. And of all the companies to submit their services to the AN under the Accord, one took the world by surprise.

General Resource Limited was one of the fastest growing corporate entities on the planet, and their portfolio had shares in everything from agriculture to insurance. As one of the first to invest in rebuilding Estovakia after decades of destruction and civil war, they took pride in their logistics and networking more than anything.

By granting businesses full access to their booming logistics services as well as a global crowd-sourcing and crowd-funding network for ideas and technology that transcended governmental authority, small ventures from Sotoa to Wielvakia grew internationally competitive in frighteningly short amounts of time. With a GR sticker here and there to ensure a tiny, inconspicuous share went back to GR and its backers, there would always be money to fund whatever venture came knocking on CEO Francis Mondeci's office door.

Mondeci put a lot of effort into preserving his company's reputation as austere and benevolent in a world justifiably distrustful of corporate influence, especially given its sudden rise to power. In the two years since I interviewed Annette Zweig in Belka, GR's corporate center expanded to include a new terminal at Dinsmark International, a convention center and a transport hub. With plans to expand their high-speed rail link to reach Sudentor in what was still North Osea, they clearly intended to revive the fallen nation as a place to showcase these ventures as well as a financial center for them to store their capital. It would be a hub for dialogue and development - or as the company put it, "peace and growth" - and a potential platform for reunification talks.

Just as well, Mondeci was especially very steadfast against going into any industry that could fuel a war effort, especially armaments. It was believed that his childhood in a particularly war-ravaged part of the world had something to do with it, though few could really pinpoint any details about his past other than what official GR sources put out. Nevertheless, he took pride in the fact that not one company under GR's wing had any direct ties to the weapons industry. So it took a lot of arm-twisting to get him to finally start up a special security division when the Valahia finally began to challenge their "peace and growth" projects and indigenous security forces proved inadequate.

Nobody knew why he relented rather than resign or even contract another company. Maybe he felt it was a necessity, with some suspecting that his arrival in the business world caused the 'establishment' - or whatever was left of the Gray Men - to try to thwart their ventures at every turn, with terror if need be. Perhaps he found it necessary to keep some of his own biggest financial backers on board. Or maybe he really wasn't the economic visionary people thought him to be when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere in 2006, investing in Usea's reconstruction and earning him the fortune needed to start GR in the first place.

Whatever the case, now that GR had entered the private military market, they would be there to stay. For better or for worse.

The new division was, at its founding, called the GR Security Enterprise.

Rather than a mere security force, the Security Enterprise was aggressively marketed from its inception as a full-fledged private military company. Large portions of the company's reserve capital were used to acquire ground, naval, and even air forces at its disposal.

Of course, the Security Enterprise was still at a technological disadvantage compared to their newfound ANIPF rivals at Neucom, which had formed as a conglomeration of Erusea's biggest industry and tech giants. With a solid aerospace background from the former EASA, it was easy for Neucom to churn out a variety of experimental designs and testing programs to cater to the demands of their customer base. They were also more adept at hiring the scientific and engineering talent needed to create these designs from the governments and companies laying them off, and they purchased the same Michael Riass Space Center that their government once tried to destroy as a facility for their work.

By contrast, the Security Enterprise relied on mainly hand-me-down aircraft from downsized air forces. They instead prioritized hiring the most experienced pilots and talent also being "laid off" from these air forces. The idea was that their skill with existing aircraft would more than compensate for the technology. These 'stars' were assigned into squadrons aptly named after constellations.

2nd Lieutenant Daniel Oruma of Rigel Squadron is my tour guide for the newly-renovated base. He's a wild-eyed young pilot from the Scali Islands that was practically born watching the Special Tactical Fighter Squadron 'Scarface' save his country's fledgling government from terrorists. Today he's quite excited to show off the technology General Resource purchased to outfit this base with, even though neither of us could figure out exactly what some of that technology did.

Unlike the aircraft, GR could go whole hog on technology, including the latest in prototype networking technology only seen at the conventions. I could barely recognize the area as Sand Island at all, let alone the same base I left seven years ago. And this was despite the fact I had to flee for my life under the cover of darkness from the entire Osean Army before faking my death in the middle of the ocean.

Oruma's enthusiasm wasn't dampened at all when I told him who I was here to see, pointing me to a lone pilot standing forlorn on the other side of the island's only runway. He explained that the guy was one of the oldest veterans in the bunch, but he "must've been seen a lot of bad stuff go down to spend a lot of time there brooding."

Which brings me to the reason I'm on this island today. It's actually mostly the same reason I arrived on this island seven years ago. And when I stepped out of the small chartered Cessna the company had booked for me, the weather was the same golden sun and warm blue sky that greeted me back then.

After the Belkan Conflict ended, the Osean government took a number of steps to conceal the identities of the now-legendary Sand Island Squadron. The Four Wings and anybody that was closely associated with them were separated for their own protection and only allowed to communicate through secure channels. But these only served to deepen the legends that circulated about them, and the efforts by the Gray Men to hunt them down. My articles on the war along with the OBC's influence saved me from ending up in witness protection, but I never heard from any of the Four Wings or their other friends after that. Any attempt to contact them was met with stern words from the Osean FIB.

In the meantime, Sand Island AFB was decommissioned and shut down in 2012 as one of President Harling's last acts before leaving office with the highest term-ending ratings of any leader in the last century. The surviving staff were relocated across the entire Osean Federation or discharged and sworn to secrecy, as if they had shut down Area 51. No more than five staff members from Sand Island could be found on any one base. The airfield itself remained in bureaucratic limbo after they removed all the records and Osean Air Defense Force logos.

Then, everything changed.

On Christmas Day 2016, General Resource announced they had acquired Sand Island as a facility for the Security Enterprise. Their crews began landing renovation and construction equipment barely hours after the announcement.

News of this deal was met with widespread public outrage. The company and its staff gained the term "Greasers" after the acronym and their ability to cut through all the red tape so fast. Protesters began appearing wherever Mondeci went to promote GR's latest projects, angrily demanding he shut down the PMC before it got any bigger than it was. But even as he frequently tried to disassociate himself from the "monster" he created, the Security Enterprise began getting work done. A few weeks before I arrived the Security Enterprise claimed a major victory protecting Verusean Emirate oil refineries from a major Sotoan separatist attack allegedly supported by the Valahia. This meant stable oil prices in a region wracked by popular unrest, and _that_ meant juicier contracts from the ANIPF for the Security Enterprise.

The lead pilot of that operation was assigned to another "star" squadron: the M42 Antares. And he was the very pilot I was here to meet.

Of course, it wasn't exactly part of the deal that the OBC gave me. GR had apparently sponsored my whole trip to try to debunk the "evil mythos" surrounding the Security Enterprise's activity and my itinerary here consisted solely of the tour. But when a snail mail letter arrived on my desk the morning before I left, my cynicism turned to excitement. The letter had been written - and worded in the parts that hadn't been redacted by the FIB censors - by a very familiar hand.

Major Eduardo Trinidad, according to official Security Enterprise sources, is a native Sapinard that spent seven years as a pilot for the Royal Sapin Air Force with a pair of AN peacekeeping missions to his name before his resume earned him a transfer to the Security Enterprise. He is currently listed as Antares' squad leader.

But the whole resume with Sapin and the AN, of course, is his cover identity. Eduardo Trinidad wasn't even his real name.

I also hardly recognized him in his Security Enterprise uniform. General Resource also invested quite a bit in creating a functional jumpsuit that looked different from the ones used by the Osean Air Defense Force. But when we met at the end of Runway 27, I recognized his close-cut black hair and sullen expression the moment I laid eyes on him.

"Albert. It's been a long time," he said to me, forcing a smile. "Sorry to disappoint you..." he added.

Ricardo "Blaze" Villa, the original Demon of Razgriz, had finally returned to Sand Island. But thanks to some string-pulling by General Resource, he also found himself at the very source of that outrage.

The Security Enterprise's civilian CEO Alexander Vanderwall already ran General Resource's insurance division, GeneraLife. One of Mondeci's closest confidants since GR's founding and a man he practically considered his brother, "Alex" was the executive that finally convinced "Franck" to start up the Security Enterprise. Alex also descended from a prominent Hoffnung industrial family, of whom his own father had been arrested and convicted as part of the same conspiracy Blaze fought seven years ago.

It must have tormented Blaze to know that he now worked for these same people. Everyone knew that a few of those that instigated the 2010 conflict had likely returned to positions of power and influence with added layers of legal protection, though only he and I and probably the remaining Ghosts of Razgriz knew that he was now directly working for them.

And with the island that once provided the roots for the Razgriz' quest for peace effectively purchased by those same individuals, many were starting to wonder if they had struggled in vain.

Yet although he had reason to suffer in silence, he seemed to be quite cheerful about his predicament.

"Nah, it's fine," I replied, gesturing to shrug it off. There was a bit of an awkward silence afterward. "So...are you excited to get back in the air?"

"Flying my own fighter plane again?" he said, smiling, "Hell yeah. Beats the hell out of airliners and wasting away in WitSec."

"But you're practically flying for the Gray Men now."

Blaze quickly put a finger to his mouth. "Ssssshhhh," he whispered sarcastically, "Can't say that out loud, least not until it gets past Alex's lawyer squad."

"Sorry," I replied with a half-joking smirk.

While the hunt for the Gray Men met with much early success, many of those that did get charged could afford to stall the legal proceedings long enough to bury the evidence...along with potential prosecution witnesses. The identities of the Razgriz weren't a secret to them, keeping them firmly at the top of their hitlists.

"Ah, don't worry about it. At least it's actual terrorists this time," he replied, "The Valahia or Valhalla or whatever they're called..."

"Va-la-hi-a," I corrected him, "It's amazing how much they yearn for a return to those bad old days."

"And here I am, a puppet of capitalism and the corporate conspiracy," he replied, really laying on the sarcasm now. "Hopefully I'll actually get to spend some of what I earn this time."

Blaze's cynicism worried me. Maybe I hadn't caught it before, or maybe the years of being shuffled around Witness Protection without any way to contact his former squadron had taken its toll on his personality. Certainly, the way the hunt for the Gray Men bogged down over the past few years along with the new wars in between would have wiped the idealism off of pretty much anyone's face.

But he seemed to be enjoying his disillusionment as if he actually looked forward to earning a mercenary's paycheck. For once, I actually had the urge to get this story over with and leave Sand Island, hoping that I'd just run into him on a bad day.

Then, suddenly, Blaze had the same thought.

"Hey Albert, you wanna go flying?" he suddenly asked.

"...what?" I exclaimed, my stomach suddenly grumbling.

"We're gonna take off on this joint training mission with the Oseans and Terceiro over Bahia Valenti in a couple hours," he explained with a devilish grin on his face, "I figure if you're gonna write some corporate fluff piece, you can at least have the time of your life doing so in the back seat of the old F-4 they gave me."

"Oh God no..." I replied, definitely wishing I hadn't had lunch when I arrived at the airbase.

"Hey, I'm just kidding," he replied, patting me in the back and almost ejecting my lunch from my stomach, "They're probably gonna stick you on a helicopter or cruise ship or something. I'm telling you though, the RIO seat is the best in the house."

That didn't calm me down one bit as we began to make our way back to the command room for his briefing. I was already wracked by an advance sense of deja vu as I recalled exactly what happened the last time I came to this island to report on a fighter squadron.

And the only reason I thought I could stand it then was because I was fleeing for my life under the cover of darkness from the entire Osean Army.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._


	12. Out of the Nest, Into the Fire

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**In a Blaze of Glory (Soldier)  
Chapter 2**

_"Older men declare war. But is the youth that must fight and die." - Herbert Hoover_**  
**

**AFB GR-Sand Island, Osea  
August 2017  
1711 hrs.**

"You lucky bastard," was the first thing out of Blaze's mouth as he came out of the Crew Ready room with a frustrated smile on his face.

"Excuse me?" I replied, shocked and trying not to be angry.

"They postponed the training exercise because President Carvalho is trying to play negotiator for the war in Leasath."

"That's a shame," I replied, obviously very relieved. "What happens now?"

The Federal Republic of Terceiro was the biggest country in South Osea, famous for its lush rainforests, long beaches and the occasional drug wars in the shanty towns of their large cities. But what made them such an upstart was the fact that they were willing to build relationships with virtually anyone regardless of their traditional allegiance. President Daniel Carvalho had been able to keep historical relationships with Osea warm while simultaneously cuddling up to Yuktobania and Verusa. That meant three times the foreign investment into the country before GR's contributions, and that made them one of the world's fastest-growing economies.

This put them in a unique position when it came to relations with their southern neighbor Leasath, which had been caught in its latest civil war for some time. Terceiro was their bridge to the world, and not just because their Leasath border town were home to some of the world's biggest smuggling syndicates. A joint training mission with Osea would not bode well for their diplomatic credentials if Carvalho wanted to serve as the negotiator for the many factions in that war.

"Well, they've given me 48 hours leave while Alex and the board talk things over with Terceiro," he replied, "I'll finish up your tour with Oruma and then see how much of the seven years we can catch up with on our flight out."

_Twenty-two years ago, there was a war..._

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

People come up with stories and narratives to fill in what they don't know. It helps them sleep at night. The bigger the gap, the bigger the story. Eventually people come to think that story is true, and they don't quite like it when there's real evidence to the contrary. I've heard and read quite my fair share of Razgriz stories under the identities I got under WitSec, and even _I'm_ amazed at what people have come up with.

Some say I'm the Demon Lord of Ustio or his hellspawn, who rose up from the fires of hell and damnation itself to lead my band of minions to rule the heavens once again. Others say I'm some traumatized and disillusioned Belkan just looking for peace before realizing he has to redeem his country against the remnants of the fascists. All I know is that I'm not Mobius 1 or Yellow 13. If I were _that_ amazing I wouldn't have been tossed into WitSec in the first place.

My hometown was Las Violas, the biggest city on Osea's Pacific Coast. The City of Violets was, as the rap lyrics go, almost completely devoid of flowers. The neighborhood I grew up in wasn't exactly like in the video games where everyone openly carried a chrome-plated handgun and expected every other passing car to initiate a driveby on a random group of assembled gangstas. Hell, we were even in one of the most prosperous states in the Federation. But the neighborhood where I lived was definitely one of those places where the Osean Dream came to die. Nobody trusted cops or politicians, and every attempt to improve things just seemed to sputter out before it even began.

My parents moved over here from the Islas Gracias, that archipelago off Eastern Usea where people claimed Osea ran a puppet government to keep tabs on the FCU. As Osean policy implied, they probably fled here because the dictators the government installed provided a steady source of immigrants. In any case, they were so engrossed in the rampant consumerism that the family values fell apart before I learned to walk. I spent most of my childhood in a small apartment with my divorced mom.

I mean, it's not that I don't love her. I still write her, as much as I have to grit my teeth through all the cover story bullshit the FIB makes me write down. She was always a bit of an evangelist though, which meant a lot of corporal punishment. I suppose I not only learned 'good and evil,' but like every kid growing up got jaded about this morality a lot easier. Especially when it came to war.

To a lot of us in the L-V-O, the war in Belka was one of those things that a lot of people down here hated and weren't afraid to say it, even before the blog was invented. Osea had been engaged non-stop in some campaign somewhere leading up to that war because they just didn't like those damn Commies across the ocean. And because Osea had been at war with Belka several times this century alone, people just figured the government needed some way to burn up the surplus prosperity from 1980s. People from my neighborhood got recruited and fought there, coming home with stories to tell their families and the occasional bout of PTSD turning them into homeless drunks. The war in 1995 wasn't any different. And everyone would be home for the Nineteenth of July, the commentators at Weazel News would say.

It didn't even matter that we were _allied_ with the Yukes that time. Osea established and ended alliances at the drop of a hat just like Orwell said. After the war ended, we figured, it would be business as usual and then the FCU would be our friends again.

But then came the nukes. It was one of those rare events that caused even the Bahas and 5th Street Vagos to drop their guns in the middle of a turf war and go to their television sets to see. I remember being dismissed from school early and coming home to see my mom silently crying as she watched seven mountain towns obliterated in gigantic mushroom clouds. Before long she had buried her head in evangelistic literature proclaiming the impending rapture. But I was probably more curious than afraid or scared. This was something I'd never thought I'd see happening today...or today in 1995, anyway.

Suddenly, we were all Belkans. Or Oseans. Or whatever nationality took front page on whatever newspaper. We were all _united as one._

And having watched all that, I began to feel uncertain...almost afraid of what would happen next.

President Herbert Walker was one of those classic conservative Middle Osea tax-cutter types that thought that everything he did was endorsed by God. But looking back, I could say that I liked how things were a lot more predictable when he was in power, at least up until after the nukes hit. Or maybe my youth meant I still wasn't quite aware of how shitty everything really became. It wasn't the kind of shitty situation that could only be manipulated by some conspiracy. No, a system so big and faulty wouldn't even be capable of pulling it off.

Big business profited during wartime, that was how they worked. When peacetime became profitable, they did that too. It was just the natural cycle of things that often needed a "revolution" or two to spice things up. But the nukes weren't "natural". Nobody expected the fascists to actually make good on upping the ante that high. Suddenly, the natural peace-and-war cycle of industry started to collapse. The fear of the asteroids did a damn good job of covering up the cracks, especially since business found a quick patch building all those superweapons. But after that smoke cleared, shit really hit the fan. And here in Las Violas, we actually started to feel the hard times getting pretty damn hard.

Factories and businesses closed, the zollar and the ruble and the Usean Credit faltered as the global economy came crashing down and the next two administrations couldn't do shit to stop it. The mayor stepped up police presence just to keep protests from turning into riots too often. The government faced assassination plots left and right from everyone from disgruntled survivalists to disgruntled Belkans. Sure, the media _tried_ to find some other global threat to harp on, like the Eruseans' war. None of it ever matched the asteroids though, but that didn't matter. The world just wanted something to put their hope in if they wanted to make it through the next decade without collapsing.

Harling-Appelrouth '04 was supposed to be that Ticket of Hope™. A Senator and a Federation Councilman from two opposing parties, putting aside their political differences to become the first cross-party independent ticket ever voted to power in the country's history. It was all about Restoring Osea, Bringing Our Troops Home and more slogans than half the commercials in the goddamn Mega Bowl. The military-industrial complex was quick to complain, but when the world was already starting to tip over the brink, their opinions weren't so much invalid as they were unwelcome in the arena of political discourse.

All over Las Violas, politicians scrambled for an endorsement on their ticket. Pseudo-marxist community activists and Bible-thumping preachers shook hands before the cameras, promising to step up their efforts to help raise my part of town out of its seemingly endless squalor.

Perhaps the only thing it really did was make the bullshit a lot more apparent than it normally was.

Sure, Harling served as a negotiator for ISAF and the Eruseans after their war. Sure, Osea and Yuktobania signed those important treaties and got rid of all but their biggest nukes. Sure, there were G8 summits in space, captivating the mind of every kid with pipe dreams of being an astronaut. 2008 was the first year Osean soldiers _weren't_ actively involved in some overseas conflict.

But we never saw any of the benefits of peacetime trickle back down to us in Las Violas.

And we never saw any of that promised community improvement as I got out of high school. I certainly didn't. I managed to graduate without dealing drugs and getting gunned down in slow motion drive-by on a street corner to some profound rap lyrics. But the neighborhood had actually found some way to get even shittier than before thanks to the crisis, and everyone wanted a way to leave for greener pastures fast. 9-5 as a supermarket manager like my mom's job since I was in junior high kept food on the table but that wasn't going to cut it for me. Neither was her suggestion that I go into something religious by trade.

So when I enrolled in the Air Force Academy that one wintery morning, I wasn't expecting to end up a hero. Or in WitSec. Or in the private military. Hell, I wasn't even expecting to end up a pilot in the first place. I was just another one of those - and I do quote - "innocent high-school graduates from a poor neighborhood ready to be snatched up by some opportunistic recruiter and sent to die for some lucrative natural resource that multinational corporations needed to boost profits." Or someone who had to be snatched up because the military was the only other alternative to gang life.

Either way, it was subsidized college education with a paycheck. And I could live with stomaching rations three meals a day.

I wasn't surprised that the recruiter tried his best to paint Air Force life as something out of a 1980s action movie. This despite the fact that he looked afraid that a lot of the soldiers being discharged from the Army's downsizing would come back to this neighborhood.

Still, I was thankful that the Air Defense Force recruiting center was a block closer to my house than the Marine Corps. I could chill in a hangar piecing wires and wings back together out in some countryside base and not have to worry about being forward-deployed to some god-forsaken hellhole out in a desert littered with insurgent mud-huts and IEDs. Plus, it was the Air Force...well, the Air _Defense_ Force. Harling wasn't bullshitting when they said they were going to really pursue disarmament. But I figured it was the least painful of the armed services to enlist to, at least after BMT. All I had to do was follow some drill sergeant's orders from sun-up to sundown, march 20 miles a day through rain and mud and not give second thoughts about them. Hard, yeah, but it wouldn't last forever.

And that was something that - after some close calls with flunking - I did all too well. Four years later, I managed to end up on the Fighter track of undergraduate pilot training. And for that I was shipped up to Heierlark in the glorious 57th State of the Federation to spend some time in the cold among a few million disgruntled Belkans.

I earned my callsign during my first training session. My instructor was Captain Frank Friedrich, a not-so-disgruntled Belkan and a veteran of the last war. I know a lot of people think there must be some kind of mystical meaning behind it, but I distinctly remember being called 'Blaze' because that's exactly how Cap'n Fred said I would go down. Only without the glory. Though I think _that_ was probably because I mentioned the term "North Osea" in his earshot. I still don't think the southern Belkans have gotten used to that term yet.

As things turned out though, learning to fly and memorizing the different bits of a plane and what they were wired to was the easy part of fighter pilot training.

It was during SERE where I deeply regretted thinking this would be the least painful of the armed services to enlist to, especially since being a fighter pilot was considered a "high-risk profession". On the other hand, it was where I first met Alvin H. Davenport. Chopper and I ended up in the same sleeping area of the specially-built POW camp. I'm not really allowed to say anything else about happened at SERE thanks to this non-disclosure agreement I signed, other than it was everything anybody would expect a Yuke prison camp in Tiberia to feel like...if you could still feel anything after you were "released." But I will say that he did dispense some rather useful if not disturbing advice - that I had to actually mentally _enjoy_ what our instructors had planned during those two weeks.

Unfortunately that advice didn't come to much when I tried acting like an action hero and spit in my torturer's face during an interrogation session. We would have gotten a good laugh out of it if Chopper hadn't tried pulling a similar stunt and we ended up groaning ourselves to sleep for the next couple of nights.

The two of us survived though, and we got assigned to Sand Island, an auxiliary base west of Cape Landers as a reward for attaining our "freedom". The 108th TFS stationed there was called "Wardog," but because Osea relied so much on aircraft carriers these days the last time the entire base saw anything close to a 'war' was when an old Yuke premier moved an ICBM launcher a little too close to their eastern coastline just to see if Osea would flinch. At last, here was the sun, sand and scuba dive spots that the recruiting posters advertised.

And I knew I jinxed it from the moment I joked to Chopper that there had to be a catch.

The cast of characters were colorful enough. The base commander Orson Perrault was still living in the Cold War, with nothing good to say about the 'godless pinkos' only a couple hundred miles across the sea. And that wasn't counting anything he had to say about people that usually got in his way. Of course, his adjutant Captain Allen Hamilton always managed to keep his boss's rage from bursting out of his morbidly obese frame.

By contrast, Sand Island's most senior mechanic was Perrault's "good" twin. Although the old F-5s we flew probably predated the Cold War, Peter "Pops" Beagle and his crews kept them flying like they were fresh out of the factory. Apparently he got his name from the fact that he always tended to act like someone's dad whenever anyone assigned to him performed well - or messed up during maintenance. Pops had a dog called Kirk that followed him around wherever he went, but his best human friend was the base's senior instructor Captain Jack Bartlett, a veteran of the war in Belka who never got promoted since, for reasons nobody understood. From the way Perrault talked about him, it probably had something to do with him once dating a Yuke Army recon major. The man was a firebrand in training, but really no worse than an average drill sergeant.

Bartlett and Beagle had both been shot down over the infamous Round Table. That the two were able to find each other in that wasteland and escape together would probably forge a friendship probably bordering closer to a 'bromance' than the one me and Chopper nearly built while locked away in SERE. And that was perfectly fine with us, because whenever we seemed to do something wrong during one of Bartlett's training flights, we would have to go to Pops to figure out how to do it right next time.

No, the catch was our squadron leader, Lieutenant Colonel Garrett Ford. There was a reason Chopper called him "His Highness." Ford was the real emperor of the base. The man would have us doing kitchen patrol for missing something during a walkaround check. Or cleaning toilets for possessing something on his broad-brush definition of "contraband." He nearly had Chopper put on court martial for blasting his Rolling Thunder CDs a little too loud in the rec room. Even after summer ended, we could barely think about watching the sunsets and sipping tropical drinks because we were afraid he was conveniently lurking somewhere nearby.

It was on one morning in September that Ford was called back to the mainland for some good old fashioned bureaucratic wrangling. Everyone could breathe a little easier without him, knowing that Colonel Perrault was mostly hot air.

As it happened though, the same aircraft that shuttled him _out_ to the mainland also shuttled a guest _in._

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea  
23 September 2010  
0744 hrs.**

I was awoken from my in-flight nap by the aircraft's landing gear hitting the runway. I had to squint as I looked out the window of this old prop-driven transport plane, but the view woke me up like a good cup of coffee. The sun was rising behind the plane, and the entire island and its modest air base was drenched in a warm autumn glow with the control tower and hangars co-existing peacefully amidst the palm trees. Although my weighty camera bag was safely slung around my neck, I reflexively kept one hand on it as if to keep it from blowing away as I made my way out of the exit door.

The first person to greet me was a man in a Captain's dress uniform, walking briskly over to the old prop-plane's exit from a group of higher-ranking officers he accompanied. Those higher-ups boarded the plane as soon as I disembarked.

"You're the guy from the _Journal_?" the Captain shouted over the din of the prop motors still running, "Welcome to Sand Island!"

"Good morning to you too!" I replied as we walked away from the aircraft. "I'm Albert Genette."

"Captain Allen C. Hamilton. I'm the Adjutant Base Commander here," he replied, shaking my hand briefly yet firmly. His voice was a bit of a monotone, but at least he sounded like he meant what he said. "I've been notified about your assignment. This your first time off the mainland?"

"Yeah, well, it's my first time in a place like this," I replied, outstretching my arms a little to behold the tropical expanse.

My first real post with the Oured Journal was for their 'interest' section. These were the articles tucked into a little corner somewhere between the business and Lifestyle/Travel sections of the daily news, about unique people and places that weren't considered 'trendy' or economically significant. It wasn't a particularly important post, but I did get my tickets paid for off the company budget. I'd interviewed Wielvakian city planners laying out eco-friendly mass transit systems and Gebeto farmers who found a way to capitalize and collectivize at the same time. Belka was a forbidden fruit though. Nobody really spoke of that place in good terms since the war, but at the same time everyone also wanted to go, just to see if life was returning there at all.

This assignment was my first with the military, my supervising editor joking about how I'd be "embedded" like I was being deployed to an active warzone. The flight crew aboard the transport even gave me some complimentary body armor and a helmet. I played along and accepted their little gifts. After all it seemed like a good excuse to add a little excitement to a part of the world that hadn't seen much in the way of conflict for decades.

Still, I had been told that the subject of this article was the island's rather unique squadron leader, and that his life story would make great filler for the September 24 issue.

"So what's the bad news?" I asked, toning my voice down as the sound of the motors faded quickly.

"The bad news is that your interview piece is just about to take off on a training sortie."

"That it?" I chuckled, "I can wait if you like-"

"Actually, that's also the good news," Hamilton suddenly said, "You ever been in a fighter plane before?"

My smile turned to shock as I realized what that meant.

Captain Jack Bartlett, callsign Heartbreak One, was one of the few active pilots in the Osean Air Defense Force that had "seen it all." He was a fighter ace of the Belkan War infamous for his playboy antics, but he had never been promoted since the war ended and it appeared only he would know why. Rumors abounded in military circles about him. One went that he had flown in an Osean detachment managed under the notorious Ustio 6th Air Division and once shook hands with the mysterious Demon Lord. Another was that he had been sympathetic to the World With No Boundaries group. Or perhaps his little 'fling' with a Yuktobanian Army officer wasn't quite politically favorable even 15 years ago.

In any event, he was the 108th's most senior trainer, a man that could take the greenest of nuggets and forge them into a fearsome fighter pilot.

I would soon find out firsthand how "unique" he really was - as well as how "unique" his students would turn out to be.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**Mess Hall  
1231 hrs.**

The skies that morning were as blue as they always had been, with the occasional clump of cumulus clouds floating several thousand feet above our heads. Everyone that wasn't out on the morning training flight had already reported to the mess hall for lunch. The mood was lighter than it normally was, but the big-screen TV by the back wall broadcasting Jim Willis' show on Weazel was the only 'conversation' that wasn't hushed.

Ford had only left that morning, but we still hadn't quite gotten used to _not_ worrying if he was around. I'd already stopped "checking my six" in case Ford was lurking behind me. Of course, the only other thing I could really pay attention to until Chopper arrived was trying to figure out what was on Weazel's news ticker from the other side of the mess hall. It was better than watching Jim Willis go off on some tangent on whatever was his boogeyman of the week, and better than having Perrault shout anyone down that changed the channel whenever Willis was on. Nobody ever got put on KP duty for that, because the humiliation pretty much did the trick.

"Oh thank God," I groaned, as Chopper arrived and sat down opposite me, "I was getting tired of looking at old Jimbo."

"Hey Blaze. Speaking of being photogenic, you seen that reporter guy?" Chopper grinned as he set his food down, "We still haven't had our _exclusive interview_ yet." He talked about the interview like we were fresh out of TOPGUN.

"You mean the guy from the _Journal_? Hamilton said he was here to interview Bartlett," I replied, my mouth already half-full. "My guess is they went off on this morning's training flight."

"They dragged the old Phantom outta the hangar, eh?" Chopper replied, looking out the window. Apart from the NAE Hawks used for the newest rookies, the only other two-seater fighter on the base was Bartlett's personal F-4. "Geez, ya think we'd already be up there in F-16s by now."

"That's the trade-off, I guess," I sighed before taking a sip of water. "We're on an island resort, paid for by the air _defense_ force. We probably don't even get half of TOPGUN's budget."

"That's true, and we are an _auxiliary_ squadron," Chopper replied with a grin, "Least we don't have to wait for mainland leave to enjoy our freedom, with Ford gone and all."

"Amen to that, brother," I replied, raising my cup to meet his in a toast, "A toast... to freedom."

Chopper grinned sheepishly as he raised his cup to mine. The only thing going through my mind was the piña coladas that would fill that glass this evening. But it wasn't the muffled clack of plastic that I heard next.

"MOTHERFU-" was the first thing out of my mouth the toast suddenly appeared to rumble across the hall.

"The hell was that?" Chopper exclaimed as he got half-out of his seat.

Everyone looked around wondering what direction the rumbling came from - along with what caused it. It didn't take long before we found out what it was - the fire alarm began ringing and everyone filed toward the exits. Chopper and I got separated in the crowd, but nobody panicked.

At least until they got outside.

The scene that greeted us was almost utter chaos. Fire crews and MPs raced from one side of the base to another, and to and from the giant plume of black smoke rising from somewhere on the runway. Half the runway was streaked with burning oil and debris as the fire crews raced out to put out the flames, and we could feel the heat all the way over here.

I can recall exactly what I felt as I watched the smoke blot out the sun. It wasn't quite fear, not quite depression. It was more of some unsettling feeling of uncertainty.

The same kind of uncertainty, I recall, from watching those nukes on TV.

Something had happened up there. Something I wouldn't know would change the world until it was happening to me.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**1354 hrs.**

Journalists are always supposed to expect the unexpected, and being embedded with the military was - aptly - no exception. But a roller-coaster ride in the weapons systems officer's seat of an F-4 Phantom was beyond anything me or my stomach had expected, and the very least of the day's unexpected turns.

The three survivors of the flight had managed to take out a few of the unknown planes and send the rest home packing...wherever their 'home' was. Lieutenant Nagase didn't even seem to have panicked from what I picked up on the radio. Unfortunately, 'bad' turned to worse when the other surviving trainer crashed on landing, leaving Bartlett, Nagase and I to circle around the base for another hour while they scooped up the wreckage.

Bartlett apologized for what happened after we landed, though it apparently wasn't his fault that whoever planned today's training exercise happened to send them right into the path of the mystery fighter patrol. He didn't expect them to attack, and he didn't expect to lose most of the rookies _and_ their trainers. In the meantime, I decided to take a picture of the lone surviving trainee. Shaken but not shaking, she managed to smile just a little for the camera. I could barely notice it at first glance, but this was the relieved smile of a survivor. It was a rare find, and if I managed not to over-exploit it, it would at least be a keeper.

But the moment I figured the day couldn't have any more surprises than it did, another one suddenly bounced me. I had only finished winding the film from taking Nagase's picture when I turned to find Hamilton and a surly MP approaching me from behind.

"Uh...can I..." I found myself at a loss for words, though I was a little fortunate that Hamilton answered the question I was about to ask.

"Sorry about this, Albert," Hamilton replied. It was the second apology I received from Air Defense Force personnel today. "But I'm afraid we'll have to detain you and confiscate your camera."

That didn't make me any less surprised. "But I didn't take a picture of anything suspicious," was my thin excuse.

Most of the pictures I took were of personnel I'd met, and of the other planes on the training flight right before combat. I wasn't even sure if the pictures taken during the dogfight would come out blurry until they were actually developed. That would have been my fault for still preferring film over digital when it came to taking pictures for the _Journal_.

"We'll be the judge of that," Hamilton continued, "In the meantime, you're not allowed to leave the base until we've figured what went on up there."

"Oh, all right..." I groaned as I removed the camera from around my neck and handed it to the MP, who proceeded to tuck it under his arm. "My editors will still hear of this, won't they?"

Hamilton waved it off as he began to walk back to the command building with the MP and I in tow. "Don't worry about it, Albert," he reassured me as much as his voice seemed to allow, "We've already notified them. They'll understand if it's a matter of national security."

I sighed in frustration, trying to figure out what to do next. None of the pilots would know any more of what went on there than Bartlett or Edge would. "But what am I supposed to do now?" I pleaded.

"Well," he said with a soft smile, "You'll be 'detained' in the Crew Quarters, so you can at least get to know the other pilots. Just think of it as a little unpaid vacation."

Apparently he also figured they wouldn't know enough to compromise national security either.

Of course, the pilots and I would unfortunately learn plenty of that in the months ahead...

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**Crew Ready Room**  
**1607 hrs.**

Captain Bartlett was already there, slumping back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling like he'd just had the worst day of his life. Well, _third_ worst day. Second was probably that day he got shot down over B7R back in 1995. The chatter was that the first happened right before that, when he'd earned his callsign from being dumped by a Yuktobanian recon major.

He led the training flight that morning. The only other survivors of the flight were Edge and the journalist riding shotgun with him. From what I heard, Perrault had the journalist arrested and probably shipped off to a secret OCIA torture camp to figure out what he was really up to. Edge, well, Edge never liked to talk about anything.

Everyone in the room was trying their best not to look shaken up, but none of us thought any less of each other when we failed to do so.

"Hey buddy, you're breathing kinda funny." Chopper began, as we took our seats.

I shook my head. "It's just all the smoke from earlier. I thought it was gonna get into the air conditioning."

"Hey, you don't have to hide it," he replied, "Svenson's crash really shook me up too."

"Yeah," I sighed as if letting out all that built-up tension, "I mean, what if it was us up there instead of Foreman and Hendrick?"

Foreman and Hendrick, callsigns Cavalier and Mustang, were the two names right before ours on the training sorties for the day. If the morning's flight went as it was supposed to, Chopper and I would have breathed easy because we would be assigned to Captain Fritz Svenson for the afternoon session instead of having to face the firebrand tutelage of Heartbreak One.

As bad luck would have it, it was Svenson's plane that painted the runway with fire and debris earlier this morning. There probably wasn't enough of him left to send back for a closed-casket burial.

"You mean like in that movie where...what was that..." he silently snapped one finger trying to recall, "...the dude cheated death by not getting on that plane?"

"And then death came looking for him afterward because it wasn't part of the plan? That one."

Chopper then leaned in toward me. "Hey, at least we definitely weren't supposed to be there," I whispered, "Edge looks frozen stiff."

"You mean colder than normal?" I quipped quietly. I didn't think she heard that, but I didn't feel like it was as funny as it should have been as we stared at the girl sitting at the front row, almost perfectly still.

Kei "Edge" Nagase arrived here before me and Chopper did, and she was literally a mystery woman. Despite her deceptively-frail frame, she reputedly aced her examinations and evaluations _and_ survived SERE with her dignity intact. Counting mock battles, she already earned her ace wings and gained her callsign from a famous Usean mercenary that her flight instructor said she reminded him of. It wasn't hard to imagine her as a ruthless aerial ice queen if a war _did_ break out.

But she wasn't shy about supporting a President who had actively _downsized_ the Air Force into an Air _Defense_ Force since he took power. And she could always be heard grumbling to herself in the mess hall whenever Jim Willis was on. Those were about the only windows into her mind, let alone her room. My guess was she wanted to be an astronaut from when I noticed a small model of the Arkbird in her quarters. Either that or she had to be a member of some secret FSA intelligence force that needed a fighter pilot's qualifications for some black-ops need-to-know-basis assignment. But she rarely talked to anyone outside of the sorties, which was fine with us because there was a story of how she dealt with someone trying to make a rather forward advance on her.

Chopper still claimed he couldn't walk straight after that, but I kept his little humiliation between the two of us.

It was then that Bartlett sat up like a vampire. Me and Chopper feigned flinching and sat up at attention as we took a good look at his sullen mug.

"I know you don't like this, but we're short on people," he began. "Starting tomorrow, all you nuggets are gonna be sitting on alert. If we launch, stay glued to me up there."

He then turned to Edge, whom I guessed had been sitting up at attention since before we got here.

"Sir!"

"You're flying Number Two on my wing. Gotta keep an eye on you or who knows what you'll get yourself into." Edge nodded silently in response, before Bartlett then turned his attention to the rest of us. Looking into his eyebag-riddled mug made us sit up at attention as rigid as she was. "As for the rest of you, we're gonna draw straws to see which of you lives to see Halloween."

He leaned forward and withdrew a set of straws from his desk drawer. Although we'd done the routine several times before to figure out who flew with which trainer, I could practically taste the tension as we all lined up to draw. The premise was simple enough: the straws were cut to different lengths to decide our position in the formation, and because all the other trainers were dead they were notched to decide which of us were going up first. Edge already had her assignment, but we all hoped that she wouldn't be the only survivor if we went up with them.

"Dude, you go first," Chopper said, giving me a gentle shove as I got in line.

"Dammit Chopper, this isn't like last time, we might actually fucking _die_ out there and our loved ones will be told it's an accident," I muttered through a clenched jaw. Unfortunately, it wasn't soft enough for Bartlett not to hear.

"I heard that, Lieutenant Villa," he suddenly said, glaring at me like he wished I died with everyone else. I felt my face go red as everyone in the room turned to look at me, "For that, you get a free pass to the front of the line. Now hurry up, you're holding everybody up."

Chopper and half the cadets grinned sheepishly as I moved to the front of the line, wanting to take the straw and sit back down.

Unfortunately for me, I found myself silently praying to a God I didn't really put much effort into believing in when I drew the short straw. I would probably need all the divine intervention I could get in order to survive what would happen before the year ended.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**

_A/N: Yes, I am making Blaze a smartass instead of the usual upstanding or pseudo-grimdark type. Makes things interesting. Apologies to darkgriffon4321 if anything here sounds similar to his "Demons and Ghosts"._

_A/N 2: The N in NAE Hawk stands for Nordland, I like to think that country is the equivalent of the UK in this canon. And I'm still not good with the military lingo. ;_;_


	13. The Second Longest Day of My Life

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**In a Blaze of Glory (Soldier)**  
**Chapter 3: The Second Longest Day of My Life**

_"War is delightful to those who have not experienced it." - Erasmus_

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**600 feet above Sand Island AFB, Osea and dropping  
27 September 2010**  
**2002 hrs.**

Deja vu often has a way of sneaking up on people when they least suspect it. In my case, it jumped me, had its filthy way with me and left a 20 on the bedsheets while it smoked a drag just for not disappointing it.

I had an aged Sukhoi attacker in my sights, the missile lock and gun range reticule blipping on at the same time it had presumably had a lock on its land-based target. It was an easy kill, though I had only fractions of seconds to seize it before it dropped its ordnance.

But even that was much easier than it sounded, mainly because of what happened the last time I got an easy kill.

As rotten luck would have it, I had been in that exact same position before, literally hours earlier. And that time it didn't turn out so well.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Crew Quarters**  
**Earlier That Day**

I felt like a kid in the principal's office after starting a fight, only I wasn't allowed to leave detention for the remainder of the week. Nobody gave me any clue as to when they would let me out, and as I suspected they had less of an idea what exactly happened a few days back. They certainly tried to tell me it wasn't my fault, but I couldn't help but figure that there was something in there that would have had me extraordinarily rendered, even as I continued to take a video diary of my stay.

Still, it wasn't all bad. I took Hamilton's advice and got to know the rest of the crew. And I finally got my interview with Heartbreak One...though it was probably more of a casual conversation than anything. He figured they had to have come from Yuktobania, though Pops pointed out that was probably more out of the hard feelings that led to his namesake. Apparently it was inevitable given his former reputation.

I'd also kept in contact with the Adjutant. He managed to get my camera back, even though I was forced to let his superiors keep the film. That was fine, I still had a few rolls left. But he'd also been contact with his superiors on the mainland along with probably a few other government agencies. The news had been getting more positive as the days rolled by, and the phone call he was making right now would hopefully have been the one that booked my flight back to the mainland.

"Well, we don't have any reason to hold you anymore," Hamilton suddenly began.

"What do you mean?"

"Yuktobania just declared war. Our naval port at Saint Hewlett is being bombed right now," Hamilton said, pacing out of the room without another word.

A jolt shot up my spine as I peered out of the venetian blinds. Three planes took off from the runway barely an hour after they landed. I'd heard Captain Jack Bartlett had been shot down and the rescue helicopter was already on its way out. In the meantime though, Port St. Hewlett needed all the air power they could muster, and Sand Island was close enough to tap fighters from...even if they could only get three. Before they'd gone over the horizon, my investigative senses seemed to kick in, and I bolted out of the room after him.

"Wait, they're actually attacking us?" I asked, following him.

"That's what I said," Hamilton replied, not frustrated at my surprise. "We're still trying to figure out why. We're not even 100% sure if those were Yukes that attacked us the last time, but they're probably blaming us for it."

"...is there anything I can do?" I asked almost unconsciously.

It was then that Hamilton turned around and stopped me in my tracks.

"Same as always. Don't report anything until they sanitize something for you," Hamilton replied, both jokingly and seriously. "In the meantime, just relax. It's not like they're going to come straight for us. You'll get your article soon."

I stood there for a few seconds, taking his answer in while he rushed back to the control room. The sound of my stomach grumbling got me moving again, out of fear and foreboding instead of hunger. But I went to the mess hall anyway.

It was the only way I could get any closer to whatever the hell was going on.

**Mess Hall**  
**1423 hrs.**

Lunch was already over, but the mess hall was still full up. Even more startling was that everyone was gathered in a part of the mess hall they usually never were - in front of the TV that was never switched off Weazel News. I could hear mutterings among them, consciously restrained so as to not talk over what could potentially be an update.

But it was the sound of the voice they tried not to talk over that made me cringe. Anyone who ever watched the evening news could recognize that deep, dignified and solemn tone from afar even before they saw his face on the screen behind a Weazel News mic.

"...as I speak, there is absolute pandemonium in the harbor as Yuke fighter bombers continue to unleash...seemingly endless waves of bombs and bullets upon this city. We're hunkered down in this office building, it's pretty far away from the docks but you can just see that they're not leaving any part of the dockside area spared."

Jonas Stromberg was the kind of journalist that the viewers loved, and fellow journalists envied and despised at the same time. He was that guy that the big-name news outlets dropped smack-dab into the middle of a warzone to deliver a heart-wrenching monologue about the innocent victims involved. Or, as Weazel News standards went, a temper-flaring rant about how our troops were constantly fighting against the greatest evil known to man. That resulted in the cause of our envy: his prestige meant he could get dropped anywhere besides warzones, always at the forefront of the action, right there where the action is.

"We don't know how long we can continue to bring you this coverage of this day of infamy, as Yuktobanian aircraft have even opened fire on civilian targets...there is a coastal ferry just over there that just couldn't escape the dock in time..."

Amidst this envy, he was despised for the usual reasons related to single-handedly dragging journalistic standards down. He was the equivalent of a televangelist, spewing the news only his network's viewers wanted to hear. Teenagers and so-called pundits loved to cite his lines on online forums, blogs and chats. And his talking points - or rather, the talking points of whoever sponsored him - often defined his side of the national debate.

"You can see the destroyer _McLane_ right there at the pier trying to escape through this wall of fire that has literally engulfed the port. Reinforcements are slowly arriving from all over the Pacific Coast, you can just see..." his voice was briefly and mercifully drowned out by the sound of jets flying overhead - "...bringing them from as far away as some of our Ceres bases..."

I cringed and decided to come back later. I would've followed through with that if not for a sudden exclamation from one of the gathered viewers.

"Hey look! That's our guys!"

"No shit, that's one of our Tigers..."

A single exclamation from one of the fire control crew in the back of the crowd then turned this live newscast into the equivalent of a Mega Bowl party. "C'mon Wardog! Kick their asses!"

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**5,000 feet above and 25 miles S of Saint Hewlett, Osea**  
**27 September 2010**  
**5 Minutes Earlier**

The worst thing that could have possibly happened that afternoon was coming back to find our squadron's last surviving flight instructor in a bodybag strewn across a table with Colonel Perrault trying to swallow his pride typing out a notification letter to whoever his surviving loved ones were. Or at least, that's what I imagined as I found myself taking off for the second of three flights today.

The funny thing with imagining the worst thing that could happen is that it often comes second or third to the worst thing that actually _does_ happen. And then it's not really funny at all.

"Thunderhead to Wardog. Edge, you lead the formation."

Our airborne early warning and control operator was the kind of guy that always stuck to procedure. No. Matter. What. And because Sand Island couldn't fit something as large as an E-707, he had to be flown in from McNealy in advance.

"Negative. You take the lead, Blaze. I'll fly on your wing."

"Excuse me!" I exclaimed, watching Nagase's Tiger II suddenly drop back behind mine.

"Second Lieutenant Nagase, follow your orders."

"Yeah, what he sai-"

"No. Blaze is leading. I'll protect his six o'clock. _And I'm not gonna lose another flight lead._"

The third worst thing was apparently taking the lead position for the second time today, in the same aircraft, barely an hour after we'd landed.

"C'mon Blaze, you did pretty good this morning for someone that drew the short stick," Chopper's words were almost encouraging given that I could just barely see the devastation up ahead.

"Okay, fine." I groaned, nudging the throttle forward to take the lead. "Fuck, I never wished Ford to come back so bad."

"Be careful what you wish for..." Edge muttered, haunting as ever.

"Quit screwing around, this is war!" came a sudden interruption on my radio, only seconds before a Tomcat rushed past us. "The enemy's all over and they're gonna eat you alive!"

"Ah, I'd better stick to the trail position, thanks," Chopper then added.

If we weren't in separate aircraft, and in a life-or-death situation, I would have laughed it off. But right then and there I wanted to give Chopper a good old Pac-Coast pimp hand out of spite. And that was long before the Tomcat's pilot became our wingman. Still, I wasn't just afraid or embarrassed.

"Fucking wish we had Tomcats right about now..." I muttered.

Our F-5s were freshly refitted with a pair of Sidewinders each from Sand Island's stock, made ironically more abundant by the lack of fighters tapping from it. We also brought along pairs of M82s just in case the Red Navy lurked off the horizon. But the Navy - or Maritime Defense Force as they were officially called - already launched their squadrons off of their carriers and nearby bases to help. Their aircraft could probably take on whatever the Yukes were throwing at the port better than we could.

That was of course unless the Yukes used their infamous tactics of quantity over quality.

Which, apparently, they were doing quite well.

"Blaze, you take the lead. I'll go trail and follow," radioed Edge, sounding determined and calm.

I tried - and probably failed to sound that way when I replied with a "Roger. Let's do this."

"Wardog, you are cleared to engage!" Thunderhead's call snapped me back at attention to the second worst thing that could have happened today.

The flight to Port Saint Hewlett only took an hour. And one hour was all it took for the Yukes to do quite a bit of their dirty work. Several pillars of smoke already rose from the port where attackers hit port facilities and ships indiscriminately, and we could just make out the tiny fly-like dots where a few still came back for seconds despite constant chasing from our own fighters.

In some twist of fate, their indiscriminate tactics ended up sparing our own mission's objective - the 3rd Fleet's flagship.

The aircraft carrier _Kestrel_ was the pride of the Osean Third Naval Fleet. Or the Maritime Defense Force 3rd Fleet, as they insisted we call the Navy then. Back in '95 she led the charge the Futuro Canal to destroy the invading _Kriegsmarine_ with Admiral Lionel Weeker at the helm. After that, Weeker went on to become one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff until he and the rest of them walked out on President Harling just after he announced that the Navy was to become the Maritime Defense Force. I guess he didn't like the name change either.

The Kestrel's replacement captain, I had heard, used the boat mainly for goodwill and aid visits and making sure the feisty locals that tried to take advantage of our other troop withdrawals by sending out their glorified trainer aircraft were reminded that they were still going up against the Osean military machine.

Now the Yukes were here to pester _us_, and we were the ones flying the glorified trainer aircraft trying to withdraw the Kestrel into safe waters.

"Hey Kid, you know how to give commands, right?"

"Yeah, I was paying attention," I replied, before clearing my throat. "Okay, we got ...uh.." I peered at my radar, in the direction of the bridge. "...a wave of attackers about to cross the Weinstock Bridge. Establish CAP over the entire bay, don't leave the water or go past Weinstock, and if you do don't go alone."

"Roger," Chopper and Edge replied in unison, as I eyed my radar.

"We got an enemy attacker flight buzzing Weinstock at 2-8-0, 5 miles. Let's take 'em out." The three of us banked our formation toward the bridge. My HUD lit up with the attackers' identities, and from what I could tell on the radio, so did Chopper's.

"Whoa, would you look at that." he chuckled, "Fitters and Floggers? What is this, 1976?"

I smirked, trying to make the best of a really bad situation. Which really wasn't saying much. "At least we're not outgunned this time either." Not like the Fulcrums they'd sent the day Svenson painted the runway with fire, more like the Fishbeds that came at us earlier that morning. "Let's take 'em out."

The three of us gunned the throttle as fast as our Tigers could allow and dove toward the formation, which suddenly broke into three suspiciously convenient pairs. I had a couple of Fitters all to myself, though those two quickly separated knowing there was only one on their tail. I stuck with the one that wasn't maneuvering as intensely.

The Fitter hastily dropped its payload between two empty docks and banked away with my craft in pursuit. Knowing I was on its tail didn't help his accuracy, at least from the lack of news about the transport barge at the dock after taking a _direct_ hit. I managed to keep it in my sights, but it managed to stay just out of my cannon sights. Eventually I got frustrated and used one of my Sidewinders, turning it into a fireball.

I then banked back toward the other Fitter, which had also missed its naval target and incinerating a small warehouse instead. That one went down just as easy. Maybe it was that infamous weakness of the Yuke combat psyche - self-preservation is not a priority.

"This is the_ McLane_. We've got a pesky fighter-bomber keeps making a run at us. We keep swatting him away before he hits anything but we can't shake him off forever!"

"I got 'em!" I replied, exuding conference as I banked toward the McLane.

Whoever was flying that Su-25 Frogfoot around what was one of the OMDF's more cutting-edge destroyers was doing a pretty good job at evading them at such close range. It was time to put an end to that streak. I gunned the throttle and caught up to the attacker just as it began to dive for another run, lining it up in my HUD with ease. The Frogfoot made a quick and desperate strafe with its guns before pulling up, no doubt noticing that I had a missile lock on him.

I wasn't going to let him come back for another run.

"Fox Two!" I cried out, letting off my last Sidewinder at the Frogfoot. I couldn't miss.

The Sidewinder's impact sheared the Frogfoot's tail section clean off, causing the plane to go into a tailspin. A small plume of white smoke erupted from the front of the plane as the pilot ejected.

"Thar she blows!" I shouted, clenching one fist in victory as I watched the burning Frogfoot corkscrew into the bay.

My celebration was extremely short-lived, especially when Edge pointed out exactly what the Frogfoot crashed next to.

"Oh God...oh God..." I suddenly found myself hyperventilating in my G-suit.

"Kid...did you see that?" Chopper asked.

"I...did I...I..."

I couldn't find the words to respond as I circled the Frogfoot's crash site, barely 50 meters from a burning ferry. The oil and debris that flew out of the Frogfoot's wreckage covered the water surrounding the ferry in flames.

And that included the people trying to escape from it. It was the kind of sight you'd only gotten on war documentaries about some hellhole republic out in Western Verusea. The kind of image that Oseans never thought would happen in the "developed world", except for that very rare terrorist attack by some crazed white supremacist militiaman or some "holy warrior" that snuck in through a border port.

I shouldn't have looked. But the fire was searing that image into my mind as badly as the voice inside that taunted me. I could see their faces - the ones that weren't charred from the fires I had burning. I wanted it to stop, so very badly. But my hands were fixed on the flight stick, and they weren't moving except to keep my plane circling my kills.

"Oh shit, I killed 'em..." I groaned. "That was me..."

The funny thing about imagining the worst thing that could happen is that it makes the _very_ worst thing that actually does happen hurt you even worse.

In my case, that thing was potentially being directly responsible for the deaths of dozens of people. Whether it was accidental was beside the point.

"This is the _McLane_. We're dinged a bit but still sailing. Give our regards to the pilot that got that pesky bomber off of our asses."

"Uh, he's a little busy right now..." Chopper replied, before switching his attention to me. "Kid, get a hold of yourself!"

"We tracked what happened on our radar," the destroyer radioed back, "Those Yukes hit that dock before you guys got here. We can set up an investigation later but a lot more people are gonna die if you don't help our fleet escape right now!"

"I'm sorry, Blaze, but they're right," Edge replied, her voice contemplative, almost depressing, "All we can do is help get the survivors out safe."

I took a deep breath.

"Okay. Let's...let's regroup over the Kestrel."

"You want me to take the lead, kid?" Chopper asked. "You're still breathing funny."

* * *

**Albert Genette  
**

**Sand Island AFB  
2 minutes earlier  
**

"That was one of our boys saving the _McLane_," Stromberg declared, as the camera followed the lone fighter rising from his kill. "Whoever that was, our sailors and their families have that pilot to thank."

Yet amidst the sudden celebration, there was that inevitable nagging feeling that someone among us _didn't_ see a reason to celebrate the base's remaining fighters becoming heroes. It wasn't the lunch crew, who quickly denied that they would hold a welcome-back party much to the crowd's sarcastic dismay.

No, that someone was leaning in the far doorway, with a look of disapproval on his face. That I could tell what expression he wore on his face also meant that I could identify who that was...though it wasn't hard to notice Pops' rotund figure from as far back as the TV screen.

I'd already done a few interviews, so I figured I could at least tell what kind of disapproval that was before he looked at me funny for looking at him funny. If my sources were correct, he'd also flown in Belka. Which meant that he had an idea of what kind of war this could turn into.

But for now, the rest of us sitting pretty out in the middle of the ocean could indulge in a little heroic escapism. We didn't know how quickly the Yukes would attack, and less of an idea of how we'd react.

Perhaps fortunately, we'd find out exactly how that would happen only a few hours later. And only then would we know if they were really heroes or not.

After all, my life literally depended on it.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa  
**

**800 feet above Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**1959 hrs.**

_"Look at the hangar! Who the hell pulled that out?"_

When I came back from Port Saint Hewlett later that afternoon I felt like my land legs had gone gangrenous and had to be amputated. We'd just managed to save the Kestrel from another flight of Yuktobanian bombers after it passed Weinstock Bridge. Chopper was glad that the three of us all managed to survive, though we spent much of the flight back to Sand Island trying to get me to rationalize the fact that the people around the burning ferry were probably already dead by the time I dropped a Sukhoi Frogfoot on top of them.

_"This is Grimm! I was in the hangar helping out the mechanics! I'm taking off!"_

Perrault commended us for a job well done, though he did have a few harsh words for Edge for not following Thunderhead's direct orders. In the end though, he decided to let it slide "for now," recalling the ominous accent with which he muttered those words. We were all still _technically _"nuggets" anyway, so he figured it was somehow natural that we'd be jockeying for our own position until they rushed Lt. Colonel Ford back from the mainland to put us in our place. His transport would land on the island this evening, and tomorrow it would be back to our own personal hells.

Unfortunately, what I did earlier that day was already haunting me even as Ford boarded his transport. Perrault didn't even have to mention it.

_"The hell you are, you're not even out of replacement pilot training yet! Aren't there any other pilots around!"_

I avoided the mess hall as soon as I got out of debriefing. The ground crews would be waiting there to throw us some kind of celebration for saving Saint Hewlett, but I ended up spending the rest of the afternoon in my quarters, staring at the ceiling and wondering how long I'd survive not in this war, but how long I'd survive in Las Violas returning as one of those PTSD-ridden "babykillers" they called virtually every soldier returning from a tour of duty.

_"I didn't see any."_

I couldn't even find any ironic relief in the fact that they still hadn't found Bartlett from when he went down this morning. The boat we tried to track must have picked him up first, and the Base Commander used the last part of debriefing to question Bartlett's loyalties. I just wanted it over with. I mean, it wasn't like I would imagine all the ways the KGB would try to squeeze Bartlett for information, right?

The one law that any soldier followed, of course, was Murphy's.

A loud rumble jolted me awake before I even fell asleep, followed by the non-stop blare of an air raid siren. I raced to the room's only window and looked out to find a small pillar of smoke on the far side of the base. The small dots approaching from over the reddened horizon clicked everything into place.

The Yukes didn't like us messing with their fun. This time, Sand Island was their target. It was an easy blip on the map that they couldn't miss.

Having just come back from battle, the three of us were last in the queue to take off. Apparently our deeds in Saint Hewlett inspired the rest of the nuggets to want to take off first to face the Red Horde. That was perfectly fine with the higher-ups, and as a result it was raining friendlies as soon as I'd climbed back into my Unlucky Number 19.

It was a classic tactic of theirs, forged in years of conflict with their own neighbors and glossed over when they lead the eastern armies toward Dinsmark. Make the enemy know death and destruction so vast and drive it in so deep that we would have no choice but to be dragged down to their level in order to survive. If they didn't think it was deep enough when I dropped their Frogfoot on a burning ferry, it was already six feet under when me and the rest of the Wardogs dropped a couple more of their fighter-bomber squadrons into the ocean.

But something else hit me as my plane whirred to life with Chopper panicking over the radio.

I couldn't protect all those people back at Port Saint Hewlett. And one horribly misplaced Frogfoot kill was just one aircraft out over the horde.

This wasn't the kind of thing I could just leave in the past. Yet the Yukes didn't kill everybody, even as they were killing everybody else right then and there. No, this was just the beginning. And the way things were going, I probably wasn't going to make it off the ground.

I did though, miraculously. But it didn't seem Airman First Class Hans Grimm would. The young Reservist often looked up to Pops and Bartlett where the rest of us just took their advice for granted. He had that kind of politeness and innocence that guaranteed he wouldn't last long in a conflict, and if he did somehow survive he'd be scarred so badly that he'd have to turn to drugs just to keep the nightmares out.

With Pops taking off under all that enemy fire toward God-knew-where, he'd have nobody turn to for advice. Putting it bluntly, it was pretty easy to see he was fucked three ways to Sunday down shit creek without a paddle.

But there he was, rolling out the last working fighter plane in the entire base out onto the ramp, probably flicking every switch like he had the instructions duct-taped to the canopy. I circled and watched him make his way out onto the ramp as another wave of Yuktobanian fighter-bombers approached from the horizon.

Was I going to let them take his life so helplessly?

Was I going to go down like Cap'n Fred said I would?

I knew my answer to all these questions - and Grimm's - before I'd even took off that evening.

"No. Let's help 'em out," I replied, spotting some Floggers on my HUD. "Move barrier CAP back to the island. Don't let them get this close again."

"Roger, let's give 'em a hand."

"Control systems are...okay..." Not only did he probably have the checklist taped to the canopy, he was probably reading them for the first time, too.

Not that I had time to worry about his memorization skills (or for that matter, not that Chopper had time to whine about his rock 'n roll records) when the attackers still orbiting around the island began competing to see how little of that list he could read before they blew him sky high.

"I got Floggers and Frogfoots closing in. Chase 'em out."

"This is Grimm. I'm about to take off, can you see me from up there?"

From half a mile away from the island in the sunset, his plane was a barely visible dot. Fortunately, there was radar. "Yeah, I can see you, now get off the ground already!"

"I'm in takeoff position on the runway. Engines, full power!"

"Just fucking go!" I shouted, my radio deliberately turned off for that moment as I returned to help Chopper and Edge chase down their own targets. Or rather, one of them was actually trying to chase Edge down. Another burst of cannon fire spooked the Fitter off of her tail, and Chopper finished him off. It was then that another attacker - an Su-25 Frogfoot like the one in Saint Hewlett - dived past me and made a break for the runway. I banked away to pursue it.

I was expecting deja vu to hit me harder than it should have. Perhaps because I'd found my resolve to never let it happen again. But with the memories still hours-fresh in my mind, I asked myself that question again anyway.

My inevitable response came in the form of a sustained burst of M39 cannon fire tearing into the Frogfoot's thrusters. The attacker tried to pull up as soon as it was damaged, but it was only good enough to give the pilot time to eject while the wreckage plummeted onto the beach where I'd been hoping to enjoy a piña colada since we got here.

For all I cared, deja vu could take its 20 and shove it.

And with my radar showing Grimm taking off, well, deja vu could shove it right up his-

"Grimm! Get over here and cover my six!" Chopper shouted.

"Bitch, he's mine!" I replied jokingly.

Grimm gave a "Roger," though each of us thought he was directing it specifically toward either one. And the skies weren't actually clear until the control tower confirmed they were.

"This is Airman First Class Grimm, callsign Archer. Control Tower and all planes, I will be joining the Wardog Squadron."

"This is the control tower. Roger that. Blaze, take care of them for us!"

I grinned from ear to ear. "That's right Chopper, he's mine."

"Pffft. I'll get the next one!" he replied.

"Will you two stop joking?" Edge added sternly, "The fight's not over until Ford gets back."

So maybe I wasn't worried about deja vu as much as I was getting what we wished for. The next transmission over the radio was from a voice I swore I hoped I wouldn't hear at least until Christmas.

"This is Wardog Leader. Sand Island, I'm out of fuel. Requesting clearance to land."

I knew that voice anywhere. It was hard to forget the sound even if he'd been gone for two months for bureaucratic wrangling. He couldn't have picked a worse time to come back. And that meant

"Negative, Lieutenant Colonel Ford! We're under attack! You can't land!"

"All friendly aircraft, cover me while I land." Two months of bureaucratic wrangling easily corresponded to two months of pent-up stubbornness and rage that we definitely wouldn't live down by Christmas.

"Great fucking timing," I groaned to myself, checking my radar and steering my plane in Ford's direction.

"...what are you, insane!" Chopper replied, following up.

"Second Lieutenant Davenport, is that you?" At that moment I was ironically thankful that I wouldn't get the worst of it. Even if he was my friend.

"I'll be sure to write you up after I la-" was probably the last thing out of Ford's mouth as his transport was suddenly incinerated. For a few moments Chopper and I hoped it was spontaneous combustion...until a trio of MiG-29s suddenly blipped onto our HUDs from behind the fireball. These fighters were modern at least compared to the stuff we'd encountered up to a few seconds ago. And the very sight of the kind of fighters that could easily outperform our Tigers meant at the very least that we wouldn't have any time to celebrate Ford's demise.

"Third wave closing fast!" Edge shouted.

"Let's finish them off." I ordered back. My hands were trembling on the flight stick. "Edge, take Chopper and go after the bombers. Grimm and I will keep the fighters away."

"Roger." Grimm replied, his enthusiasm not dampened in the slightest. "Stay calm, stay calm..."

The enemy formation quickly broke off, and I ended up stuck with two. Knowing that one of them would have to follow Grimm sooner or later, I picked the one flying past my left and banked out to pursue, hoping that the old Tiger II could at least match its turning circle.

I fired off my one Sidewinder. For a Fulcrum, splashing it was easier than I thought it was. Maybe I was already used to being and/or flying one of those heartless killing machines, but I suppose my newfound experience managed to balance out my fatigue...if not make it worse.

"Okay...one down, two to go." If that one wasn't pursuing Grimm...

"Bogey on my six!" came an almost frantic shout. 'Archer' still had time to figure out the proper terminology in the middle of his first scramble. Hell, if he died then and there I would've given him an A for trying. It was better than my reply.

"Fine, I'll save you," I muttered, air-braking to catch him.

This one was almost easy by proxy. Grimm was using every evasive maneuver in the book, which meant the second Fulcrum was using every pursuit maneuver in the book. And that meant that I could use my own textbook maneuvers because he wasn't evading. The last Sidewinder found its mark, and the Yuke pilot probably didn't even know it until it hit him.

But speaking of knowledge, I definitely knew what I was thinking as the HUD suddenly blipped red to indicate the other Fulcrum had a missile lock on me, but I'm pretty sure it consisted of more expletives than half the sailors on the _McLane_ say in 24 hours.

"I got him!" Grimm shouted. Right then and there I knew _I_ was dead in the air, efforts and grades be damned.

"Jesus, hurry up and kill him!" I shouted, my mind briefly finding religion again before my fingers could find the countermeasures switch. Just as well, warning alarms went off as a missile began tracking me. I just managed to find the chaff switch and deploy it right as I noticed the Fulcrum breaking off pursuit. A couple extra gallons of blood in my head later, the alarms stopped ringing, my peripheral vision flaring up as the chaff caught the missile in its tracks.

That and Grimm apparently scored his first kill...and the last one of the night. Chopper and Edge definitely did their jobs, easy - or eas_ier_ as they were. If I tried to breathe a sigh of relief, I would've been hyperventilating in my flight mask.

"Control tower to all aircraft. All bombers confirmed destroyed. Thanks for protecting our base, everyone!"

"...Was my flying all right?"

"Well, you're not dead, are you?" I joshed, sarcastically faking pilot's pride. "And you actually saved _my_ ass in return. So we're even."

"Heh. Thanks. It was because of your support."

At that moment, through the effects of the lingering G-forces on my body, I could feel myself blush. Not just out of embarrassment or flattery. I'd have to save those for the photo ops. But it was then that I realized something.

I couldn't protect everyone. No human on earth could possibly do that. But I also realized that it didn't mean that I couldn't protect anybody at all.

I had consciously chosen to take Grimm under my wing, and in that I unconsciously vowed to protect him. That vow became mutual. On the one hand, I had to be thankful for that, and such camaraderie would have to be beneficial in the future.

On the other hand, I just never realized it would start turning into something a little more than that.

"Come on! Let's get a welcoming party going!" the control tower boasted.

"Fuck you, I'm going to bed."

"Heh. I hear ya man," Chopper added. "Definitely got a reason to sleep soundly tonight..."

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Crew Quarters**  
**28 September 2010**  
**1302 hours**

I'd already been awake since sunrise, but there were three things keeping me happy and active.

The first was that I survived last night alive and unscathed. The first wave of aircraft were actually intended to clear out whatever escorts we'd sent their way, so Blaze's squadron was up in the air to catch the actual bombers. The base was still combat ready after the local atmosphere had cleared.

The second was my newfound freedom - in a sense. I woke up that morning to find I was now assigned to the Press Corps. Captain Hamilton had phoned in the request right before the raid started...almost as if he'd expected my inadvertent firsthand coverage to win the Pulitzer. I wore my new ID like a medal, and relished the thought of actually one-upping Jonas Stromberg at his own game, as much as the usual lunch crowd was still glued around the mess hall TV to catch the action replays of Wardog's heroism.

I took a deep breath as I knocked on this particular door. They told me there was no way he couldn't have been awake at this time of day, but I wasn't so sure until he replied.**  
**

"Come in..." came a miserable groan from inside. The door was unlocked, and I stepped in trying to make as little noise as possible.

He had close-cut black hair, the first stubble of a goatee and bags around his eyes. Come to think about it, he definitely didn't look photogenic enough for another attempt at the group pic we took that morning, right on the regrettably last frame of my only roll of film left. Despite all that, Second Lieutenant Ricardo Villa was able to force a smile as he sat up on his bunk bed, dressed only in a tank-top and boxer shorts. He vaguely resembled his former flight instructor under the lighting.

"Oh, you're that reporter guy that's been lurking around here," he said with a smirk.

"Excuse me, am I disturbing anything?"

"Does it look like you are?" he groaned, waving it off. "Don't worry 'bout it. Oh, and congrats on your new assignment."

Apparently he'd noticed my shiny new ID too.

"Oh, thanks." I replied jokingly. "Talk about an ironic stroke of luck."

"Stroke of luck my ass, I was just happy to get that photo over with," he grumbled, leaning his head back on the pillow. "That all you came to me about?"

"Not quite," I asked, taking out my notepad, "Would you...uh...mind a little interview?"

"Sure. Long as you don't tell my mom what I did," he said, looking at the underside of the top bunk with a snide smile. "She'd be furious."

The third reason I was happy was that after five days and a shelling I finally got to write the story I'd been looking for since I got here. But the one I sent back to the Journal that night was only the first salvo - pun perhaps intended - of the expose of a lifetime.

* * *

_The following article is reproduced from the 29 September 2010 issue of the Journal._

**The Four Wings of Sand Island  
by Albert Genette  
**

It is hard for me to believe that the world, let alone my assignment, was so much different when I arrived at Sand Island only a week ago.

But this Osean Air Defense Force base, based on a small tropical island that takes less than two hours to walk completely around, has become the country's first line of defense against a brutal offensive launched by the Union of Yuktobanian Republics. In one fell swoop, the climate of peace so painstakingly built since the end of the Usean Conflict in 2006 was shattered in the face of many, for reasons known to so few.

Many of these faces athered around the big-screen TV in the mess hall to watch the live coverage of the Port St. Hewlett raid. They cheered on their fellow pilots as they helped the MDF's squadrons defeat what seemed like endless waves of Yuktobanian fighter-bombers.

It was something quite short of a miracle for a squad that had lost their flight instructor only hours before taking off. In an even more cruel twist, that instructor was the initial subject of my assignment here. But wherever he is now, I'm sure he's looking down on his students' handiwork with pride.

The staff collectively sighed in relief as the Third Fleet escaped the port, and prayed that the casualty totals remained lower than feared.

I tried - perhaps half-heartedly - to at least pull through with my original assignment despite the disappearance of its main subject. But no sooner had I sat down with one of them, when the air raid sirens went off.

The war had followed them here.

I spent the entire evening of the 27th hunkered down in the crew quarters, trying to recall what I learned from earthquake drills, though no amount of ducking and covering would have been able to stop a well-placed bomb from completely immolating the building.

There was nowhere to run, either. Sand Island was at least 100 miles from the tip of Cape Landers, and the air routes were obviously closed. It would be hours before the OMDF would arrive to evacuate anyone.

But against all odds, I emerged late that evening unscathed, finding the base crew already hard at work cleaning up the mess. OMDF vessels had just arrived, and were patrolling off the coast of this tiny island for wreckage, survivors and potential prisoners of war.

The Wardogs had prevailed against overwhelming firepower once again, and this time they were not alone. I learned later on that a young airman bravely commandeered a spare fighter plane in the midst of the chaos to join them in combat.

That night, the Three Wings became Four.

Yet despite what they have endured to ensure the safety of the country, it is important to remind ourselves that they, like everyone else serving in the armed forces, are only human.

Today, they may be heroes, tomorrow, our martyrs. And it is something that everyone here in Sand Island, from the pilots to the mechanics to the mess hall cooks, have accepted as fact.

Indeed the Wardogs would not have been able to fly as well as they did were it not for the diligence of the ground crews. The "Doghouses," as the hangars are called, are where the 703rd Maintenance Company makes their residence. It is thanks to their maintenance regiments that the 108th's aircraft are able to withstand so much stress.

"Wars can break out any time, for any reason, anywhere on the planet," one of the senior mechanics explained.

One of the Army's dwindling number of war veterans, this senior mechanic has endured conflict before, and he speaks from the heart.

"Ultimately, it's up to every one of us in the armed forces to end these pointless conflicts before too much blood is shed."

Needless to say, the pilots of Wardog also have their own opinions about a war they had no choice but to fight.

"Even if these wars happen without warning, we have to live them day by day," said the squadron's only female pilot. "We make our own choices, in the air and on the ground, and we have to live with their consequences."

The base buzzes with activity non-stop now. Fighters shuttle in and out of reconnaissance duties, with the occasional transport shuttling new staff to and from the mainland. As I write this, the four Wardogs have concluded their latest briefing and are getting ready for another crucial mission to the war effort.

As a new recruit of the Press Corps, I signed an agreement with the Department of Defense stating that I cannot reveal the details of any of these missions, out of the understanding that it would endanger their lives more than they already are.

But I can say this: as I watch the Four Wings of Sand Island take off for parts and conflicts unknown, I know that they are ready to face their destiny with pride, if not without a little fear.

The cadet who hosted me in his room for the past few days told me as much when I asked him.

"Am I scared?" he said, trying half-heartedly to force a smile as he headed to the briefing room, "Of course I'm scared. You'd have to be crazy not to be scared."

Fear isn't the only thing they're feeling though.

"I'm angry as hell," their flight leader told me, "Not just at the Yukes but at myself, for all the lives we couldn't save."

This otherwise unassuming young cadet from San Adrian State looked shaken as he talked to me. Having led his squadron's flight over Port Saint Hewlett, he even admitted how much of a toll his suddenly newfound duties are taking on him. Yet coming from a part of the country whose representatives in Council have often been the most vocal critics of any Osean military operation, these emotions do not clash with his duty, or his language.

"All I can do now is fight on for the lives we can still save," he continued, "All we wanted was our peace. But if it means those f- Yukes will try to conquer us for it, then we'll fight to the last man if we have to."

I do not know if this will be their last flight, or the first of many more to come. But I can hope that they will live to learn what truths may lie behind this war.

Our pilots, soldiers, mechanics and sailors deserve that much.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

_A/N 1: In order to get to the third pilot of the story I've decided to limit the number of chapters per "half." For a game with 27 missions this means squeezing more than one mission into the same chapter. Please let me know what you think.  
_

_A/N 2:I also decided to get a little creative with the supporting cast. In case the name doesn't ring a bell, I got Jonas Stromberg's inspiration from that one journalist in the first two Die Hards. As for the destroyer McLane, look for it to return in future naval missions.  
_


	14. Pucker Factor Rising

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**In A Blaze of Glory (Soldier)  
****Chapter 4: Pucker Factor Rising**

_"__Teamwork is essential, it gives them other people to shoot at._"— Unknown

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**5000 feet above Basset Space Center, VC**  
** 3 October 2010**

"Wow, that's the Mass Driver."

"Is it your first time seeing it up close?" Edge asked inquisitively.

"Well, I was planning to go eventually," I moaned, feigning procrastination.

To be honest, a career in aeronautics never really interested me, let alone the opportunity for a 'disadvantaged youth' like myself to come out here for junior high space camp. But sarcastically whining was probably better than telling them that Mom was too busy trying to keep food on the table and I was too busy trying to avoid the "thug lyfe" during my summer vacations.

I guess it was also a lot better than venting another of our infamous Las Violas grudges.

Here was a multibillion-zollar (and possibly trillion-ruble) catapult built from the same defense budget cuts over the last 6 years that resulted in the Air Force becoming the Air Defense Force. But this particular Las Violas grudge wasn't that the money wasn't used to provide better education or social services for our fair state. No, that was always the fault of the governors and state legislature fucking up the budget and their mistresses.

Instead, it was actually a very poorly kept secret that the project was _also_ a way to revitalize South Belkan industry and make the people of our newest state a little less disgruntled than they normally were. Generous tax incentives to the recovering cities of North Osea baited the industrialists over their resentment for not officially being Belkan anymore. That made it apparently easier for the bureaucrats to just have their portions prefabricated by Belkans and labeled as Osean rather than have it mined, built and shipped in from San Adrian State, which was really only a third of the distance away.

It also made for much better PR knowing they were helping to rebuild a part of the world scarred by nuclear war, never mind the fact that they were abandoning cities like mine to the urban decay.

Edge sounded like she bought the PR though.

"Blaze, do you know why the Arkbird was made?" she asked me, while Chopper and Grimm were arguing technicalities.

"I'd guess it wasn't for what they were going to use it for," I replied, doing a better job of hiding my sarcasm than I normally did.

"Ironic, isn't it," she replied hauntingly, but I still couldn't believe it.

The Arkbird was one of the last projects Herbert Walker approved on his way out of office. And, like every Cold War superproject, it was designed specifically to spite 'those godless commie pinkos' by intercepting their satellites and missiles before they pierced into the hearts of "our precious bastion of democracy."

But unlike every other Cold War superproject either delayed, destroyed or left to obscurity by Ulysses, Harling found a way to use it constructively. Or destructively for the good of mankind or whatever the proper metaphor was. The meteors left tons of debris in space, either from fragments it brought in or pieces of the planet chucked back up into orbit from impact. The Arkbird was fitted with a Yuke chemical laser to destroy it. And there was that space conference that supposedly ushered in a new era that died as suddenly as it began.

Nagase was certainly sold on that peace with as much certainty as she did when fighting, so why she was so disappointed that it was finally able to show its original colors was really beyond me.

As for the colors themselves, I found myself staring up at the faint gray dot that was the Arkbird dipping into orbit through the shiny, clear canopy of my freshly-upgraded F-16 while Chopper and Edge discussed the finer technicalities of things.

It took a frantic announcement to snap me back to planet Earth. As it were.

_"Halt countdown! Enemy incoming!"_

"Well dang. Here we go..." I grumbled, as the radio squawked to life.

_"This is the Base Air Defense Command! The enemy has a large formation of transport planes escorted by a squadron of fighters. They're conducting an air assault to capture this base!"_

I checked my radar. A good number of enemy blips were bearing down on the space center like a bad Marais State hurricane.

"Okay this...is not good."

"What? They're actually planning to invade Osea?"

"It's their base too, I guess they're pissed they're not getting just half of it," I grumbled, squinting through my HMD to read the finer details lighting up just an inch from my face. "I thought these commie fucks were all about sharing."

"Blaze, you don't have to slur them like that." Edge added.

At that point though I could safely say I was no longer surprised by what the Yukes could pull out of their collective sleeves when it came to numbers. This time they were dropping BMPs from the giant Antonov transport planes entering ultra-low-earth-orbit around the space center, probably loaded with Spetsnaz operatives. The Space Center was probably already swarming with our forces in preparation for launch, but even they hadn't quite experienced the Red Horde like we did.

"Hey Kid!"

"What now?"

"If we shoot the parachutes before the tanks detach, we'll smash them into the ground! You with me?"

I grinned mischievously, wishing I had something to play music in the cockpit with. For the first time in history, well...

"Oh yeah, I love the way you think, buddy."

"I guess we don't have any other choice. I can't believe that's our strategy."

"Hey, lighten up. This actually sounds kinda fun. Tell you what, you take the nugget up for a little air-to-ground skeet shooting and Edge and I will keep their escorts off your asses."

"Really? Aww, you're too sweet," Chopper always had a knack for faking romance. "Come on, Archer, time to drop some tanks!"

Chopper and Grimm banked away to take on the first Antonov's payload, while I scanned the radar for the first bogeys to react to them taking on the first Antonov's payload.

"Weapons hot, clear to engage," I added. "Enemy flight incoming at 0-3-0 angels five, how copy?"

"Blaze, this isn't a game..." she replied, in a very pointed calm, as we banked to intercept a group of Fulcrums that intended to finish what they started that fateful night.

"They killed all those people, Edge," I groaned. "We all saw them. If anything, the end of that killing starts right here."

"...I hope you're right, then." Edge added. "If the Arkbird is our only chance to restore peace."

"If you ask me, I'm just thankful it's on our side."

And I damn well had to be. Especially considering what we were letting it loose against.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**3 Days Earlier**

Far from sitting around and doing nothing, I found myself busier than ever. Now that I was officially embedded with the Wardogs, I had to settle quickly into life in a _de facto_ warzone. Getting a routine going wasn't so bad. I could jog around the island to warm myself up, and they even granted me access to the gym.

It was keeping my career going after sending the Four Wings article where the difficulties really began. Being a quarter of a world away from my usual research sources, I was reduced to online editable encyclopedias, websites and phone calls as well as the base's small library. And getting access to those was a hassle in itself, thanks to army-filtered internet.

Ironically, it was here that Captain Hamilton really pulled through. Because he happened to be the go-to guy for clearing potential contacts, I was at least able to keep in touch with a lot more people than I thought I would. And in that, I could put a lot more together about what little anybody knew about this nascent conflict than I thought I could.

No assault of this magnitude and precision would have been possible without the authorization of the government, and by proxy their chief executive, Prime Minster Seryozha Viktrovich Nikanor. Of course, the Politburo only really approved the assessments that led to that call. Those would have had to have come from the Ministry of Defense, led by Marshal Oleg Ivanovich Pushkin, one of Yuktobania's top commanders in the Belkan War and the very embodiment of the Yuktobanian military establishment. And the intelligence would have had to come from his allies in the infamous KGB, led by his personal friend Kiril Vasiliyevich Semyonov.

And that was where I ran into a bit of a paradox. Nikanor and Pushkin were ideological arch-rivals for the soul of Yuktobanian socialism. That they were in the same government was mainly a result of a compromise between the old party-military elite and a successful reformist movement that had pushed for more openness in government, lead by people like Nikanor.

As a result even the most keen defense analysts agreed that the government of 2010 was no longer the rubberstamp of the _nomenklatura_ that it was even in 1995.

So what did Pushkin and Semyonov find out that would have convinced Nikanor to launch an attack? Or rather, how did they manage to convince Nikanor of such a "threat?"

Was it really a threat to Yuktobania as much as it was a threat to Nikanor?

Bridging that last hole in the puzzle required a piece that lay beyond my limited reach. Whatever that motive was, it would probably have leaked out of the Politburo by now. Something was up.

In any case, I was racking my brains too much to solve this mystery. I sighed and looked outside. The sun was starting to set over the ocean, bringing daylight to our newfound enemy to the west.

I needed a walk.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**Heierlark AFB, NO**  
**30 September 2010**  
**0023 hrs.**

Coming from the kind of background that rappers constantly like to brag about, I learned to savor every chance I could to experience something unusual. Las Violas was hot, so the corresponding chance would be to savor something cold that wasn't from air conditioning.

When we landed in Heierlark for the first time since we left basic training, we certainly didn't expect to be treated like Vinewood celebrities when we finally got out of the cold. But when we strolled into the command room for our debriefing, everyone looked at us like we'd just worked some kind of miracle.

In the rec room, everyone gathered around the fireplace to hear Chopper tell grand tales of how we managed to save the Kestrel from certain destruction and keep an innocent young reservist from being incinerated, no less than twice each. And even then I still couldn't believe we did.

Mainly because I still hadn't quite recovered from surviving unspeakable horrors yet again, along with what happened only three days before. Even though the more recent one definitely wasn't my fault, it wasn't exactly easy to forget being repeatedly treated to the sight of people jumping out of the frying pan and into the proverbial boiling grease.

I just couldn't rationalize how I was supposed to be celebrating, so sometime after Chopper began the story of how 'Archer' and I saved each other's asses I excused myself to get a "well-deserved hero's nap" and went out to one of the nearby hangars to stay warm and quiet. It wasn't as if I was going to get much sleep what with the order to take all these nuggets back to Sand Island early next morning. After that I could get a couple of days of leave for my trouble. In the meantime I could just let the chill, well, chill me off.

That and I could get a good look at the F-16Cs the four of us would be taking back to Sand Island. I almost felt like a nerd getting his pimped-up beater back from some washed-up rapper.

Almost.

"I let you go for a couple of months and you go and turn into a war hero," came a grizzled old voice behind me.

"Better than dead, Fred." I replied, before chuckling. "Heh. I rhymed."

"Well, I didn't think I'd see you coming back." Cap'n Fred was still there, in his winter cap and jacket, still flight instructin'. "After Sand Island and what happened over the Narrows earlier."

"Oh, you're not the only one surprised." I smirked, "I didn't think I'd end up in the middle of a war."

"If it's any solace, I didn't think we'd see war again either," the cap'n replied, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I was fortunate to get out of the last one rather early, and alive."

"And you got out while you could..." I replied, looking "Is there anything over there anymore?"

The cap'n smiled. "The same thing that's always been over hills. People, towns, forests..."

"I meant...I mean, I don't mean anything by it but-" It was funny. Technically, I was a racial minority but I was talking to him like he was. After all, the citizens of _this_ particular state hadn't become infamously disgruntled for no reason.

"Eh. You get used to it. Sooner or later, people learn to bury the hatchet."

"But...if it took that much to..."

"From my perspective, we learned." the Cap'n continued with a voice that edged on reverence. "Old habits unfortunately die very hard, but now, I think our vendetta is over.

"I hope you're right," I groaned. "I think I've already seen too much already."

The cap'n then chuckled. "Believe me, you'll know when you've seen it all."

* * *

**3200 feet over Galloway Narrows Bridge**  
**Eaglin Straits, Shelton/Bronstein State Border**  
**Eight Hours Earlier**

"Spot any Lightnings yet, Kid?"

"Just Tomcats and Hornets. That thing's still tied up with DOD, isn't it?"

"The_ Condor's_ lurking just over the horizon, man. Their Lightning Levys are just gonna swoop in and save the day if anything happens out here."

"...Okay, now I'm pretty sure the _Condor's_ still in trials."

"Why do you think they called us out?" Grimm suddenly began, "Maybe they're waiting for us to leave so they can save the day instead of us."

"You're learning, grasshopper," I replied, "Soon you'll be as smart-asstic as Heartbreak One."

I believe Chopper called it the "easiest mission in the world." Looking back, and comparing it to some of the other shit I'd go through, he was probably right. I'm not sure if he called me out for "smart-asstic" not being a word.

After the Red Hordes descended upon Saint Hewlett, the armed forces went straight to DEFCON 1 and had every boat in the ocean withdrawn to the Bannion and out of the range of everything but the biggest ICBMs.

Of all the aircraft carriers in the Navy's arsenal, we could only find four in the vicinity. There was the_ Buzzard_ and _Vulture_, which happened to be out training the other day. And there was the_ Kestrel_, which my squadron personally saved...also the other day. She'd brought along our newfound friends aboard the _McLane_ for support.

That left the _Condor_, which technically was already in the Bannion waiting for them. The Andrew Harris-class carrier was supposed to take the Kestrel's place as the flagship of the Third Fleet that month. It was bigger, faster and tougher than the Kestrel, and it was going to play host to the VFA-019 Leviathans. They were the Navy's finest squadron, soon to use their newest aircraft. In short, the _Condor_ was the MDF's way of saying we hadn't gone soft.

The only reason we weren't protecting it was because it had barely started trials when the Yukes showed up in Saint Hewlett, and the Levys were halfway across the country.

And because someone up there figured the Yukes would know that we'd be evacuating the carriers into the Bannion in the first place, they wanted every last plane available patrolling the sky just in case they actually tried to finish what they started again. That, of course included us in that "big aluminum cloud" as well as every other squadron from each of the carriers, including Captain Snow's Shorebirds. If the Yukes decided to send another Red Horde, we weren't gonna be caught off guard again.

All we had to do was...wait for them.

We spent the better part of an hour flying in circles around the damn fog, with me and Chopper moaning about how we were still flying around in Tiger IIs amidst Hornets and Tomcats. Edge kept quiet. Or maybe she had her radio off. Eventually, it seemed, we figured they weren't coming.

_"Permission granted to return to your assigned bases in sequence. Aircraft may refuel for the return trip if required. Hold above the carriers for the tanker aircraft."_

"Oh, you're FUBAR now, Grimm," I chuckled evilly, "You never learned mid-air refueling, did you?"

"You never did either, Blaze." Grimm replied innocently.

"...Well I did a couple of times!" I added, feigned getting caught. But I really was right when I said I'd only done it only a couple of times.

The mid-air refueling, that is. We'd have plenty of time to worry as we would be the last to leave.

"Everyone's starting to leave already! Can we go yet?" Chopper then whined.

_"Wardog Squadron, I told you to wait for the tanker plane above the carrier."_

"I swear, man..."

"Hey, at least we won't have to sit up here envying all these Tomcats and Hornets and-" Grimm then cut himself off. "Is that a...Freestyle?"

"Oh no, you're not getting me and Blaze into another rap bat- wait, what is that? Is my radar on the fritz?"

"It's showing up on mine too. Definitely Yuke IFFs!"

Freestyle was our callsign for the Yakolev Yak-41. The Yukes had actually managed to develop a VTOL that didn't disintegrate in turbulence, but Nordland's Harrier got all the glory and the contracts. The last anyone ever actually heard of it were some trials on one of their Red Navy carriers.

Which made it all the more surprising when they suddenly appeared over the Straits at our twelve o'clock, closing fast and armed to the teeth.

_"E...enemy approaching! All units, return to your CAP stations! Protect the carriers!"_

"...are we the only ones here?" Grimm then asked.

"Yep," I seethed. "Just us and the few Navy fairies that haven't landed."

_"We have three carriers! Don't let them sink even one!"_

"Okay, okay," I groaned. "Fangs out, everyone. Engage at your own discretion but don't go alone. Chopper, guess it's your turn with Archer this time."

"Copy, Blaze," came Chopper's squawk, "Guess you're stuck watching the quiet lady."

"Hey, she's dependable, okay? Lay off," I added. "But if you lose his ass, it's your fault."

"Thanks, Blaze. Let's go." Edge then replied. "Edge, engaging."

The Freestyles looked pretty surprised to see us still airborne as well, splitting up their flight to try to take the long way around rather than play chicken with us. Edge and I banked to the left, almost mirroring their path.

"I'll run interception and distract them. Edge, tail 'em."

"Captain, you think you can risk it?"

"It's wide enough, and we don't exactly have time. Let's do this."

I gunned the throttle and dove into the widening gap between the two Freestyles as Chopper and Grimm took off in the other direction. My forehead started getting moist on the approach, and I damn near hesistated as I got close enough to make out the red and yellow roundels on their stabilizers.

If I did, I would probably have ended up crashing into the trailing Freestyle as I jinked to the other side, weaving a little sloppily between them as I tried to regain my bearings. The Freestyle in front of me didn't seem bothered in the least as it continued on its course toward the fleet, as warning alarms began to ring for letting its partner take the obvious opportunity.

"Edge, Fox Two!"

That is, not realizing that it also afforded Edge the opportunity too. The missile lock warnings fell silent in a muffled boom with my fingers just inches from deploying countermeasures. I grinned as I returned my focus to the Freestyle in front, which was definitely starting to fly like the pilot was worried.

"That's right baby, bend over." I chuckled as I attained missile lock and went straight for the trigger.

Unfortunately the Freestyle banked sharply away with a quick dumping of flares, rendering Z84,000 worth of missile as useless as a flare gun.

"Goddammit..."

"You shouldn't always be so hasty, Blaze."

"I know. Fuck." I groaned, angrily bumping the console with my fist as I nosed the plane down to follow him. "Let's finish 'em off quick before more of 'em get in fighting distance."

"Copy," Edge replied, her plane's blip aligning with mine on the radar as I followed the Freestyle. "Don't lose your cool."

Having learned my lesson not to waste the goddamn missiles right out of the bat, I switched to the M39 revolver cannon as the VTOL tried to outmaneuver me in a downward spiral. The old M39 was probably older than Pops but it was still pretty damn reliable as its shells connected with the Freestyle's thrusters on the rebound upward, and the Freestyle started to spin out of control. Not even its pilot dared to try losing me with that.

"Got one, and a chute." I announced, seething quite audibly on the radio. "That's for my Sidewinder, you commie fuck."

"Captain!" Edge suddenly snapped as I pointed my Tiger II back toward the clouds. "We can't dehumanize them even if they are our enemy!"

Another formation lit up on my HMD at the corner of my vision. "Yeah? Well I'll be sure to let them know after they fucking kill us!"

"Guys?" Grimm suddenly squawked, "We can talk about this later, okay?"

I took a long, audible sigh that I knew they could hear, though it probably didn't sound different from the long, labored breaths caused by the thorough application of G-force across my body. As I aligned my craft toward the next Freestyle formation, I uttered the last word we would have in that discussion for a while.

"...fine."

* * *

**Albert Genette**

The one thing I could count on during my jogs around the island even with the war vibe was a little tranquility. There was always at least one road where I could hear the waves lapping up against the coast, like the tropical paradise this place must have been in the millennia before it became the front line of a war decades in the making.

Tonight though, things were different. More specifically, the world was a little bit louder, and the air a lot thicker I didn't get too far from the crew quarters to find out why.

The base had been restored to working order in short order after the massive "Charlie Foxtrot" the other night. But the land and sea traffic had apparently tripled overnight, with heavy machinery mingling with the usual Army vehicles and dredgers moored offshore with MDF escorts.

That actually made sense. Although the base had been restored to working order in short order, it was also one big crime scene with every branch of the armed forces trying to find Yuktobania's motives and clean up their garbage. If it could be fished out of the ocean, it was considered evidence and was to be sent to lockup.

Naturally, that also meant keeping it from spying eyes like mine. The Army kept a massive cordon around the "receiving areas" for the evidence, where they filtered what was friendly or hostile, and what went to the scrap heap or the lockup.

Hangar D served as the latter, and that was where my metaphorical investigative sense started to tingle as I caught the activity from behind the quiet hangar A.

I ducked between A and B, keeping an eye on the soldiers guarding the entrance to D before checking my own perimeter to see if anybody had followed me.

Something just didn't seem quite right about this transfer. And it wasn't just the extra air pollution making it harder to breathe.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**7200 feet above the Eaglin Straits and dropping**

"Got one on my six!"

"Wardog Leader to Edge, I got 'em. This one's not even trying!" I shouted as I pulled up onto the tail of a Freestyle going after Edge.

That pilot was definitely more determined than the ones we'd encountered earlier, looking like he was putting quite an effort into keeping up with her as she tried to outbrake him. And that was no small feat in itself considering maneuvering was Edge's greatest strength - if not the trait that saved her from that flight of Fulcrums that day she went up with Bartlett. It did help a little that being in a VTOL he could fly slower than she could.

But it didn't help when I managed to drag my reticule onto the first one, and it certainly didn't help that he was so focused on her that he probably didn't see my Sidewinder coming.

"Splash one!" I shouted, "If anyone's below that tell 'em I'm sorry this time."

"Thanks Blaze," came Edge's reply, "Moving to engage next target."

"This is Archer, you there, Blaze?" Grimm suddenly squawked.

"What, do I need to wipe your ass again?" I replied with a smile.

"...no sir! I just need a little help and Chopper's busy!"

"Fine."

"These guys don't know when to quit! It's really starting to tick me off!"

Considering the fact that we were pretty much alone for the majority of the engagement, we were doing pretty fucking well. Mainly because the irony of having to deal with a full fleet of VTOL attackers was that our Tigers were probably more suited to take them on for being able to fly slower and tighter than most the Navy's usual stock.

This time around though, we weren't outnumbered. At least not by the time the Freestyles decided just to pick the fleet off from afar with Sunburn anti-ship missiles. Swordsman from Saint Hewlett got himself back into the fight, and he darted right out there to clean 'em up with the rest of his crew. And that didn't leave much left for us.

"All enemy attack planes destroyed. Area sanitized...wait, I'm picking up one more Freestyle angels ten."

"Wardog 1 here, I think I got one more left in me," I groaned. Chasing VTOLs, however easy they were for our planes, weren't that easy for our bodies. "Grimm, get your pretty little ass over here and I'll show you how it's done."

"...I'm feeling dizzy...sir!" Grimm moaned.

"Fine, guess I'll do this without you."

I pulled my plane up toward the lower limits of cloud cover, a tiny green blip illuminating a single Yak-41 fluttering about.

The last Freestyle appeared to dart from place to place like a fly in a greenhouse. Every angle was a route out until they hit the glass - unless it was trying to figure out which boat to hit. I climbed up to meet it, matching its unpredictable yet fortunately slow path. It barely seemed to notice me, or was expecting me but couldn't make up its mind.

Easy fucking pickin's.

"That's right motherfucker, your ass is mine." I grumbled to myself as I edged the Tiger II down to follow him, lining up the cannon reticule with ease.

It wasn't that the shells couldn't hit. Or even that they actually did hit.

It was that a few seconds after it started falling, the Freestyle exploded like a fucking supernova. And I was being pulled straight into it.

If I hadn't found religion since I drew the short straw that fateful night, then religion was sure as shit going to find me.

"JESUS**FUUUUU-**"

* * *

**Albert Genette**

Unless my eyes were deceiving me, it appeared that the Osean Defense Forces weren't the only ones taking part in the investigation.

A large flatbed truck with a logo that resembled a giant K rather than the Osean Army star was towing something large into the hangar that Grimm had stolen Captain Bartlett's spare plane from. From the shape of what was under the tarp that covered it, chances were they had definitely fished out one of the enemy aircraft from the other night. My rudimentary knowledge of fighter silhouettes led me to guess that was a Flanker or a Fulcrum, and a fairly intact one.

Even more unusual were the soldiers guarding its transfer. They weren't dressed in any Army fatigue I could recall. Instead, the bicycle-style helmets and kevlar armor resembled the kind of gear typically worn by a private military company.

They could have brought their own machinery along for extra dredging help, but even then security would have been provided by the base staff. What stake did this 'K' company want with it?

I had to get closer. Even if it was really just another Flanker, it would probably have been the closest I would get to a Yuktobanian fighter aircraft without going to an air show. I took a deep breath, and stepped out from around the corner.

I had barely gotten my foot out from the alley when I got intercepted by a dark-haired man in a tropical button-down shirt and sunglasses that suggested he spent more time on the beaches of South Veiss than on a military base. He just walked right into my path, and I reflexively skidded to a stop without him flinching.

"Going somewhere?" he began in a snidely cold voice, already sounding like he meant business before getting down to it.

"I was just wondering-"

"Don't make me get the MPs on you. Just move along and get back to your assignment." The man didn't budge against my question.

I put my hands up in submission, slowly backing away. "Okay, sorry sir. Geez."

The man didn't crack a smile or even a smirk from the one backward glance I took before heading back to my room.

Or rather, I thought I would before I noticed several soldiers bolting to the mess hall like they'd just dropped what they were doing. I couldn't help myself, still stuck in an almost film-noir snooping mood despite the tropical suit's jarring interruption. I followed after the last guy and quite literally found myself heading toward the light.

More specifically, everybody appeared to be hovering toward a disturbingly bright white spot where the TV was, as if the audience were being drawn against their will by the gravitational pull of a star. And as I got close enough to hear the audio over their stunned silence, I realized that metaphor wasn't too far off.

"...simply amazing footage of an explosion visible from the Narrows Bridge... the sheer force of it causing the person holding the camera to almost lose their balance from so far away..."

The screen was almost entirely filled with a bright white flash. Only the news titles helped remind the viewer that they were not literally staring into the sun, though none of the assembled crowd certainly cared about eye damage.

"I'm being told that the Osean Maritime Defense Force had been conducting exercises through the straits at this time, but we cannot confirm any details..."

But we were all caring at that moment. Not just for any civilian casualties, but for the fate of the Wardogs.

They needed another miracle to survive.

I backed away. I'd gone for a walk just to clear my head only to have taken in too much. This time, being at the back of the crowd, I could get out faster.

That was if I didn't bump into someone in the doorway again.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**Heierlark AFB, NO**  
**Later That Night**

Growing up exposed to the kind of "sin" that a typical Las Violas youth from 'the hood' would experience in their puberty years, I was jokingly expecting to be blind by the time I turned 18. But neither that nor the blinding light above the Galloway Narrows did the trick.

As the two-faced lady of luck would have it, I survived the supernova at the expense of everyone under it. In fact, my survival hinged on the fact that the primary explosion wasn't nearly as huge as the burst warheads it dropped. And it was big enough that I figured it closer than it really was and pulled up in time.

I couldn't say that about the other Navy squadrons starting to land though.

Only the _Kestrel_ and the _McLane_ scurried out of those ballistic warhead drops. Both the Freestyle squadrons and the SWBMs had been launched from the Scinfaxi, a massive underwater carrier that was literally the stuff of defense industry magazine legend. The supersub was 'theoretically' capable of launching entire squadrons of VTOL aircraft as well as the ballistic warheads we'd encountered over the Straits.

And to the best that our intel could scrape up, the Red Navy had secretly completed the mega-sub after the end of the last war - which could only mean that they were bullshitting about the disarmament they seemed so happy to engage in over the last six years.

That meant that if they were gonna go for us, we needed lots of backup. That's why they sent us to Heierlark - even the FNGs were gonna get their first taste of combat practically before they learned to fly.

"Well, you have to take all these poor trainees back with you to Sand Island. As for me..." Cap'n Fred continued, taking a deep, shrugging breath before smiling, "I'm looking to retire to the private sector soon as you ship out."

My attention and eyebrows perked. "Really. Where are you headed?"

"Mansbach," he said, looking wistfully at the silhouette of the Waldreichs under the stars. "There's a combat flight school owned by this new company called Kronus that's offering a paycheck and benefits much better than an Osean pension."

"Lucky you," I smirked. "That's up north, isn't it?"

"Yes. And the best part about it is that I can finally go back home to work," he quipped, "Now that I'm over the hill for you kids."

"But I thought that whole thing...with the disarmament..."

After the war in '95, the vaunted Belkan Luftwaffe got disbanded save for a couple of point defense squadrons and a fleet of transports for dropping food supplies during AN humanitarian missions in some shithole backwater warzone somewhere. The minimum requirements for defense, according to the treaties. Their great aces were either dead, retired, missing, or mercenaries flying equally-shitty aircraft. And whatever aircraft they had that wasn't scrapped were handed out to our allies so they could get destroyed in their proxy wars.

Any industries they had that could build their military were either bought by Osea, dismantled and shipped back to Yuktobania, or just out-and-out destroyed.

Hell, even the _Hukbong Himpapwid ng Islas Fuerte Grasya_ could probably stand a chance against them, and our Tigers were the best planes they had, last I checked.

"They bring their own," the cap'n continued, "That's the one thing that worries me. At least you Oseans make an effort to keep our aircraft in shape."

"Wait up, who the fuck are this 'they'?" I asked, before something else derailed my train of thought.

"Hey-hey! There you are, you little liar!"

I closed my eyes and held my forehead as I turned around. Chopper had caught up with me.

"Sorry pal, I couldn't wait to open my new presents."

"I think I'll leave the two of you alone, eh? It's too cold out here," the Cap'n quipped. I turned around again to find him walking back toward the rec room and warmth, before returning to Chopper.

"You had a nice chat with the Cap'n?" Chopper asked.

"Yeah. He's gonna be retiring soon, don'tcha know." I replied, bordering on muttering.

"Lucky ol' dog, he gets to sit this one out," came Chopper's reply, sharing the sentiment. "How 'bout you? You feeling okay?"

"Yeah. It's just...fuck, I don't want to be the hero." I said, huffing a cloud of visibly cooled air out my nose as I stared longingly at the F-16. "I don't know if I'm ready."

It was then that I felt an arm go around my shoulder. It was Chopper's, and we both found ourselves staring at the metal war machine together, instead of the starless cloudy sky that always seemed to hover over this border to the wasteland.

"We made through SERE together, kid," Chopper said, "And I couldn't have made it without you. You got us, so we'll do just fine in the real thing."

"I guess..." I huffed again. "I mean I wouldn't know what to do if I lost any of you."

"Just pick yourself up and keep going, least that's what dad told me," Chopper replied almost solemnly, "Not that we'd go down easy."

I could only force a smile.

* * *

**Basset Space Center, VS**

**3 October 2010 **

If there was a silver lining in the supernova, it was that we were going to call Yuktobania's bullshit about rearmament with our own. That morning the DOD decided to have a brand new Made In (North) Osea laser system sent up to the Arkbird via the (North) Osean built Space Center's glorified ski ramp using the SSTO _New Savannah_. Manufacturers aside, it made for much, much better PR than using the laser the Yukes donated when they helped us build the damn thing.

Of course, we were also going to raise the stakes - because they'd have to deal with us again if they wanted it destroyed. What didn't kill the four of us really made us stronger...though that wouldn't count for shit if they decided to send Flankers after our Tigers.

And that's why I wasn't in the mood to complain. Heierlark got an order from high up to assign all of us those freshly-updated F-16Cs and have us further train the nuggets at McNealy, which was less prone to sudden attacks than Sand Island. Finally, we were up-to-date(-ish) to take on the Reds' finest with the stuff we had. And it wasn't too hard to adjust to the new fighters' maneuverability.

All that made it easier for Chopper and Grimm to make it rain APCs on the space center and Edge and I to make sure they didn't rain too.

But with greater power, well...came greater challenges.

"Okay, HMD's lighting up again. Holy dick, they're coming right for us."

_"Large number of cruise missiles detected at the edge of our radar coverage. All fighters, engage and destroy the cruise missiles!"_

"Captain? Can you detect the cruise missiles from here?" Grimm barked.

"Yeah, we're smack dab in the middle of 'em!" I shouted, keeping my head and HMD on a swivel like I was almost possessed. Advances in whatever science dealt with these things meant we could now track larger missiles as if they were aircraft. "And they're all going for that ski ramp!"

"They're coming from all sides, cap'n!" Chopper exclaimed as the radar continued to light up. "The SSTO's gonna get hit if this keeps up!"

I clenched my jaw as I jinked toward one heading right toward me. "Break formation, engage at will. If you can see it, kill it. We don't have to get 'em all but stay close and make sure the shuttle doesn't get hit. How copy?"

"Archer, good copy!" Grimm shouted, breaking formation first. I quickly followed suit, banking toward one to my eleven o'clock.

After a few seconds of tweaking and leveling, I had the first missile racing straight at me. There was something perverse about playing chicken with something that couldn't shoot back, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it for that finger being wrapped around the cannon trigger on the flight stick.

I didn't wait for it to track since our combined speeds didn't even give me half the time to concentrate. The moment I leveled out, I proceeded to force feed my vulcan cannon shells to the missile. It didn't squirm like a baby as shells flew every which way, but eventually it did choke on one of them and I jinked hard to starboard to avoid the ensuing explosion.

The maneuver was practically on reflex. After almost being sucked into a vortex of fire and damnation, I wasn't going to be sucked in again even if this vortex was horrifically small by comparison. My maneuver took me within visual range of the ramp, where I could see how everyone else was doing.

Which apparently was not very well.

"Damn! Missed one!" Chopper cursed, as a cruise missile streaked past my starboard and slammed into the ramp. "That thing's still standing though."

"The ramp was built to withstand Ulysses debris," Edge called out. "But it was never meant to hold out against too many direct hits, even from these missiles!"

I caught sight of another missile in the distance, heading in the general direction of the ramp's elevated section above the bay. With another deep breath, I gunned the throttle and headed out in its general direction...only to notice another one at its periphery.

"We need to know where they're all coming from!" Grimm shouted as I slung my F-16 around to tail the nearer missile.

"I know." I grumbled, "And I know for a fucking fact that not even the Scinfaxi bombs are this...measly."

Approaching from behind to administer a vulcan colonic to a cruise missile was much easier than playing chicken with it. That only meant it didn't stress me out as much on the leadup to dealing with the next one in what was getting to be a very long line.

"Which means they're probably being launched from an aircraft lurking out there."

"Grimm, your powers of deduction are amazing," I replied, "No sarc, man."

"So do we leave the ramp to go after the aircraft or just shoot these down till we run out of ammo?" For the first time since I tried to keep him from getting incinerated on Sand Island, Grimm actually seemed to be panicking.

"Hmm...they all seem to be coming from the same vectors." came Edge's own analysis.

Every take was great and all, but this wasn't the war room.

I was now getting used to the fact that this was real war, and every second spent getting to a course of action decide added to the time since the enemy plotted theirs. Being the unfortunate MFIC up here, that responsibility fell to me, with all my ego to boot.

With a nudge of the flight stick and a glance at the radar I eased my plane away from the nearest missile toward what appeared to be a non-existent point - the nearest of the four black holes from whence these unholy lances sprung forth.

"I'm going with Archer's hunch. I'm gonna find out where these things are coming from."

"You sure you can do it alone, man?" Chopper then volunteered. "I'd probably be a better shot against those then against these lawn darts."

"I'm a big boy, Chopper, but you can tail me if you want." I chuckled, before adding, "Just be sure to call me Captain or I'm leaving your ass behind."

"Aye-aye, captain, then!" came the very enthusiastic reply as the ocean faded over the horizon behind me.

"Don't worry, Blaze, we'll keep the missiles at bay," Grimm replied, trying to muster back his confidence as we left him behind.

Every moment that I'd spent since we decided on a course of action was now being converted into moments that the Yukes were now using to continue launching their missiles. As more missiles darted past my F-16, I started hoping that I'd made the kind of decision that would eventually deny the Yukes that pleasure. And every second that elapsed until that time felt like an hour.

In the end, that single blip of utter vindication lighting up on my HMD made it all worthwhile.

"Wardog Leader to Base Command. Backfires and Kickbacks. Repeat, Tupolev Tu-22 bombers launching cruise missiles outside your radar range."

Especially when it didn't look like they'd expected me to come out after them.

"Well hot diggity, ki- I mean Captain!" Chopper exclaimed, "Looks like we found 'em!"

"Thank Archer, he had the hunch and I just followed up on it."

I activated my last Sidewinder and achieved missile lock on the Backfire's broadside. "Chopper, take the others and destroy the other bombers. This one's mine."

The target seemed so easy to hit that I fired the Sidewinder without thinking, not realizing that big Tupolevs also came with big countermeasures. The missile disappeared in a cloud of flares as the Tupolev banked away.

"Dammit! At least I spooked the bastard..." I grumbled, engaging the air brakes and pulling hard to engage the Backfire at close range. My head began to hurt as I leveled out, stress and frustration affecting me worse than the G-forces. The Tupolev's thrusters were in my sights, and its crew new it too as it awkwardly tried to shake me off and let loose their countermeasures when they could.

Bombers obviously being much larger than missiles were, I eased up a bit so I didn't end up crashing into them as I took aim and unleashed the vulcan cannon upon them. It took a couple of tries but the shells did their job at punching quite a few holes in the bomber, smoke starting to spew where I'd hit its more vulnerable components.

With both motors gone quickly, the Tupolev was just a burning glider sliding out of the sky in a deathly corkscrew. I took a long sigh of relief as I kicked back toward Basset to help finish off the other ones.

"Confirmed one Tupolev is Tango Uniform, how copy?"

_"Good copy, Wardog Leader. Got the call from Launch Control, countdown is resumed. Get rid of the rest ASAP."_

"You heard that, team, we got this!"

Like a bad action movie or video game, that was also the cue for the falling Tupolev to launch one last-ditch cruise missile - and to say they were now throwing the kitchen sink was horribly apt because this particular model was really codenamed the 'Kitchen.'

"Shit, we got a big one!" I squawked. This missile was also faster than the last few...and smarter.

_"The New Savannah is reporting a missile lock. Repeat, missile aimed directly at the SSTO! Countdown cannot be delayed again!"_

I was already pursuing the missile from my starting point behind the burning Tupolev. The hard part was that I actually used my last Sidewinder to its host plane's countermeasures. And whether it was due to damaged sustained from the death of its host or some new AI system that I also somehow didn't know about, this particular Kitchen could fly like a greased pig on steroids.

"Freaking die already!" My firing rate became sporadic as the ocean re-emerging over the horizon.

Even though short controlled bursts applied both with regular firearms and airborne armanents, it was hard to keep to that rule with the fate of the entire country in the balance.

"This is Grimm! Edge and I just took out another one, looks like the others are trying to bug out!"  
"Chopper here! I'm following one, he ain't gonna be getting far!"

From the way they sounded pretty confident about it, there was no backup Kitchen just in case I'd taken mine out. But that wouldn't be a relief either if mine did hit. The ramp was already in view, and my helmet felt three sizes too tight as the reticule slowly but surely latched itself onto the missile's lone thruster.

"Stay still you little..." I mouthed with a jaw clenched tighter than the jaws of life as I pulled the trigger.

And, like a bad action movie once again, it felt like time started to slow down. It was almost as if I could see each cannon shell spewing out of my aircraft and the ripples they left in the atmosphere as they shot out at - and more often than not, past the missile. With the SSTO starting to accelerate, I was already worrying that I would be the one that destroyed it, not the Kitchen missile.

One of them, out of what was probably my most insane luck yet, tagged the cruise missile in one of its stabilizers, causing it to suddenly point upward. Thinking it was suddenly gonna come straight at me, I jinked away...then jinked back to fly practically beside it before jamming the air brake.

I was still far enough to get a pretty good look at where it would land as my plane eventually flew past it.

The cruise missile spun out of control and fell onto the mass driver like a torch, exploding and covering the impact area in thick black smoke.

I looked up - or rather, up relative to where I sat. A single projectile rocketed through the cloud, continued down the ramp and leapt into the sky from the tip, leaving a generous contrail billowing out from behind it. My mouth hung open in my flight mask as I watched the SSTO _New Savannah_ blast off into orbit, from directly behind it.

At that point I can precisely say that I was wondering how the fuck I would explain it to mom.

More than that though, it felt like everything else my squadron did to help keep the Yukes from destroying that ramp was irrelevant. I had done it.

In that moment, I was the hero.

It was me.

_"Observation room reporting. The New Savannah is climbing smoothly! Congratulations!"_

The ringing in my ears of the g-forces catching up with me drowned out the applause. But I could sense that I'd started laughing and releasing all of that frustration in glee.

"You see that, you Red bastards! That's our shuttle, baby!" I shouted, the radio thankfully off.

"Wow, we've done it!" Chopper followed, "I can't wait to see what that bad bird's gonna do."

"Yeah..." Edge muttered softly, "As long as it won't be used for escalation."

"We're not like those Yukes," I replied, "We'll know better."

Or at least - at the time - I hoped we did.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea  
30 September 2010 **

"Jesus Christ, Pops!" I whispered, clutching my chest as I faced him. "What are you- what happened out there?"

"Don't worry. Our guys managed to make it out again." Pops replied, dismissively as he turned to walk me out. "Hamilton just got the report, but we're still trying to figure out what they escaped from."

I exhaled like I'd held my breath for a thousand-yard sniper shot. "Damn, that's a relief."

Pops smirked and looked back at the mess hall, where the TV appeared to be the only source of light. "Tell it to _those_ guys. Better leave them until the morning."

"So what happens to us now?"

"Well...the Base Commander's having them bring some trainees and better aircraft back from Heierlark," Pops continued as we walked back into the encroaching darkness and the tranquility that accompanied it. Or rather it would have been tranquil if the "K" trucks weren't still trucking evidence into Hangar D. "They'll be at McNealy for a few days to reorganize so we're pretty much on our own."

My relief seemed premature at this point. "You think we'll be safe?"

We stopped at the edge of the tarmac, looking out across the runway at the sun's brief spark of Saint Elmo's fire dance across the silhouettes of the MDF ships on the horizon.

"To be honest? Not really. I don't even know how the new guys will work as a team," Pops sighed. "But as long as the Navy's barricading this island, the Yukes will think twice about bombing us again."

I looked back at the base, the night lights already on.

Standing at the lower edge of the cluster of 'stars' decorating Hangar D was a familiar set of bright colors - the agent in his tropical shirt, not disturbed by the cooling night air.

"What're you looking at?" Pops asked.

"I've never seen those trucks 'round here before. They're supposed to be helping clean up the water from the other night." I replied quietly, crossing my arms. I started to shiver as a chilly sea breeze washed over the island and through my vest, though it wasn't just the cold. "But they're surrounded by those guys."

"Yeah. I'd stay away from that guy if I were you." Pops said softly, squinting to take a good look at him.

My eyes suddenly widened. "You _know_ him?"

Pops hesitated for a moment, before continuing. "...I know the _type._ Hotshot OCIA spook that thinks he can improvise his way out of anything."

"Doesn't sound like they live up to that kind of hype though."

"If you read about 'em in the news, that means they're _not_ doing their job." Pops replied suspiciously, before his mood suddenly pulled a 180 faster than he did. "Anyway, I'm gonna go over to the rec room and shoot some pool for a little bit. You wanna join?"

"Uh...sure."

Amidst Pops' change in demeanor as I followed him back, I came to the realization that this was more than a coincidence.

There was something almost _damning_ about the way Pops hesitated.

And as I would find out, that one hesitation would have even greater implications than the ones I had been trying to discover.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**_  
_

_Author's Note: Still sucking at dogfights. Also the long Tagalog term refers to the air force of Strangereal's equivalent of the Philippines._

_Author's Note 2: Oh, and if you can PM me the Homestuck reference in this chapter, you just might get a cameo. That's how low I'll sink for attention. ;_;_


	15. The Welcoming Party

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**In A Blaze of Glory (Soldier)  
****Chapter 5: The Welcoming Party**

"_Any military commander who is honest will admit he makes mistakes in the application of military power._"— Robert McNamara

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**3 October 2010**  
**0949 hrs.**

My investigative senses had been tingling since I returned to my room in the crew quarters after the round of billiards with Pops last week, but they'd already gone numb when I woke up to another sunny day in paradise.

One of the few sites that managed to squeak through the OADF's strict filter was that of a reverse image search. There I could upload an image and the site could figure out where it came from - or at least what it resembled. The site at least accepted a crude touchpad sketch from memory of the K-logo I found on the trucks the other day, and what I got seemed to make perfect sense.

Kronus International Security Corporation, often simply referred to as Kronus, was a private military contractor established in 2006 out of the merger of several other PMCs and defense contractors. Kronus' portfolio included a range of logistics, consultation and security projects for the military interests of Osea and its allies, and unlike others in its field its staff hadn't been involved in some disreputable incident with the local population quite yet.

The company was officially headquartered in Bellmond, Cascadia but it also had a major branch in Hartberg in North Osea, literally a couple of hours down the highway from the home of its major affiliate, Sudentor-based weapons manufacturer Grunder Industries. It also owned a training ground in Savannah State, as well as an airfield for pilot training in Mansbach in the Principality of Belka.

Kronus' affiliation along with its portfolio certainly put it on course to be the single largest private military contractor in the world by the beginning of next year.

I sighed as I looked back at my screen, where I'd drawn up a little virtual flowchart for the war, much like a police investigation's index card board. Kronus and its bases lay to one side, and the Yuktobanian 'chain of command' on the other,

At that point, I leaned forward a little in my seat and stared into the entry for the "Man In The Tropical Shirt," so ominously named. I hadn't been able to get a picture of him for fear of sudden extraordinary rendition, but I remembered his cold face and sunglasses very well. The man and most of the Kronus contractors left the island the previous evening, leaving only a pair of glorified security guards to watch over the mysterious Hangar D.

Unfortunately for me, the Man In The Tropical Shirt and the connection to the former South Belkan weapons magnate was the end of that lead. The closest Kronus presence to Yuktobania was several thousand miles away in Clavistan, where they had been working since a disgraced company they acquired left in 2007. Nord Belka itself had been a client state of the UYR for a few years after the war, but only really gained independence after the Yuktobanian troops assigned there as part of ANMIBEL were forced to return home to deal with the aftermath of Ulysses.

After that, the void was as distinct as the gap between state socialism and a military that operated on the whim of the free market.

I continued to stare into that void. For some reason, the sound of air raid sirens began to play in my head, akin to that of the week before the Kronus operatives' arrivals. And I kept focusing on that gap until my concentration was shattered by the dull thuds of knocking on the door. I jumped in my seat, thinking that the Man in the Tropical Suit had watched me through my laptop's webcam.

"Mr. Genette?" came a slightly panicked call from the other side of the room.

I turned in my seat, freezing almost twisted as I spotted an MP in the opened doorway. From the way he was keeping his assault rifle pointed down, he definitely wasn't here to arrest me for snooping.

"Y...yeah?"

"We need you to evacuate the building. The island is under attack again."

I quickly slapped the laptop shut. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, the landing craft should be here in about 20 minutes if our heroes aren't able to catch up." The MP then gestured for me to come with him. "Come on, we need to get you to safer shelter, fast."

"Uh, okay." I quickly removed the laptop's power cords and tucked it under my arm as I got out of my seat and followed the MP out.

"Come on, the shelter's this way." The MP didn't look back at me as he started jogging down the hallways.

I followed after him, shielding my eyes as I emerged into yet another bright and sunny day punctuated with the almost non-stop din of the base's jets scrambling to take off, and thin pillars of smoke just visible above and beyond the hangars from missile hits.

"...Are they sending up the nuggets too?"

"Yeah. Base Commander's orders. The Yukes are already shelling our coastal defenses. C'mon, let's go."

The rather blunt reference to Colonel Perrault was tainted with what sounded like significant doubt. Or rather, significant and justified doubt. Even though the charge against the fleet would be led by the Wardogs, whatever had destroyed the Osean Third Fleet the week before must have been ready for them out there.

I could only hope that they were ready in return.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**

**3000 feet above and 23 miles W of Sand Island, Osea  
0955 hrs**

_"Uh...er...captain?"_

_"Yeah?"_

_"If we make it back alive, I want to ask you something...if that's all right."_

_"Sure Shadow. We'll have plenty of time."_

_"Thanks. It's just something I need to know."_

_"This is Sand Island Base Defense! Enemy amphibious force intercepted at the coastline!"_

"Oh great... here we go."

_"Enemy landing craft and attack helos dead ahead," radioed Edge. "Captain, what's our strategy?"_

"Right. 1-1 to wing, it's time for a little air-to-ground training. Focus on the hovercraft and LPDs, we'll take out the escort frigates. Uh...wing leaders, keep those rookies safe. Priority to anybody that tries to shoot them down."

This was it. The final battle to end all battles. Or at least that's how they hyped it.

The morning after we got back from the space center, Colonel Perrault had every one of us - nuggets and all - rudely awakened from our well-deserved slumber. Judging from the way he seemed extra grumpy at the sight of us when we got into the briefing room, one would think that we'd brought the Yukes straight to his front door.

To be fair though, that was pretty much what we did.

Thanks to us, the Yukes knew better than to take Sand Island by air. So now they figured they'd take us on by air, sea, **and** land.

Specifically, the Red Navy had a sizable flotilla of landing craft heading straight toward us, backed up by the usual small horde of escorts. The smaller first batch had already landed and were attempting to secure the beachhead for their horde of backup.

Because they knew what they were going up against, they also reinforced that horde with the combined naval power of nothing less than their three flagships of their Pacific Fleet. The _Admirals Aristov_, _Brigansky_ and _Nevzorov_ had brought all their guns and carrier-based Fulcrums, packing extra firepower to make their boats feel less like the lambs to our slaughter.

"Wardog 2, roger."  
"3 copies." For what were effectively our subordinates, they sure didn't seem envious about being bossed around. Maybe Hamilton or Perrault had chewed them out before then.  
"4-1 to 1-1. What about the Admirals?"  
"...Thunderhead to 4-1. Enemy aircraft from _Aristov_ ETA 7 minutes."

"That's plenty of time, guys. Leave 'em to us. Edge, stay with me and we'll take the ones to starboard. Chopper, guess Grimm's all yours for port side."

"Rooooger that, Cap'n," Chopper replied with disturbing enthusiasm. "Enjoy prying him offa 4-1 there!"

"Oh I will, baby," I replied in an intentionally low tone of voice as I squinted through my HMD to spot the gray dots growing larger over the horizon.

_"This is Colonel Perrault at Base command. Do everything in your power to stop them! If you can't protect this island, what'll we tell our great heroes in the sky?"_

"Great heroes? What's with him? It's like a completely different man."

"That's why he's the FFIC, Grimm. Gotta let out all that hot air somehow. But don't tell him that."

Not that we were feeling much different. Today, the four of us were officially Wardogs 1-1 to 1-4 because the FFIC had decided to throw the nuggets at them too. And a week was plenty of time for the Scinfaxi to float halfway across the Ceres and drop its multiple warhead missiles right on top of us as soon as it knew its fleet wasn't under it.

We could only take solace in the fact that the base had repeatedly promised backup from the mainland, though given how close we were to the Reds than anybody else we had no guarantee that they would get there before we died. For all we knew they could have the Lightning Leviathans ready to sink the megasub once it took care of us. And the MDF cordon around the island had actually left the night before, meaning right now they were busy turning right the fuck around.

Of course, it wasn't that we weren't prepared to take them on ourselves. Our F-16s had been fitted with PAVEWAY bombs that were stronger than the ones on the F-5s we used to fly, along with the Aurelian-designed and Not-North-Osean-Built-For-Once LITENING targeting pods to make sure they actually hit whatever we fired them at.

It would make our day immeasurably better if we could get them to work after recalling our 5-minute PAVEWAY refresher on the way out.

"We got a formation of light frigates at our two o'clock, Edge," I began, before pressing a few buttons on the console. "LITENING system active."

"Roger. Let's time our attacks."

"We've only got six of these, make 'em count."

"Makes you wish you were in a video game, don't it?" Chopper joked.

"Then I'd feel less guilty about all the people inside these boats," I muttered.

"Blaze, seriously, that's getting annoying." Edge then snapped back, with a lot more bite than before.

"Hey, they're still trying to kill us, okay? God damn..."

And hell, if I was going to go down, I wasn't going to go alone.

Second Lieutenant Damien Madison was flying Number 4-4 to one of the few ex-nuggets that survived the raid the week before. He didn't look like much...hell, I couldn't tell if he was a boy or a girl given that he looked more feminine than Edge. But he had earned the moniker of Shadow for his ability to follow his instructor's paths almost to a T - and it fit him well.

He had followed me around Heierlark after I got back to the fireplace like a little lost puppy, wanting to hear more of my admittedly tiny library of escapades. And if Chopper was going to take Grimm for himself then maybe I had the right to adopt an innocent little nugget to have my way with.

As it were. The poor kid actually had to learn to fire once he acquired his target. And I had to wait for one of my teammates to get killed so I could take him from Wardog 2-1.

That was a thought I would come to regret.

The screen on the left of my console switched to a targeting camera as I activated the LITENING guidance system, putting a little smile on my face.

I came out of a world where FLIR was a nifty-looking type of stereophonic quadrovision goggles used when fragging baddies from a Spooky's gunsights in a video game. Now I had the real thing presented on a screen not even a tenth as big as the ones in the houses of the rappers that promoted these games.

It was then I realized how much I could rub in my knowledge of how these things really worked to the gamers who thought they could take on the SEAL Teams after a few rounds of noob-tubing and teabagging.

But that would be a topic for another fireside chat. I adjusted the screen to align its aim on the first escort ship in the formation. I practically kept the F-16 in cruise control, with the ironic knowledge that the frigates and corvettes would be kept very busy trying to swat our nuggets away from their flock.

"Target acquired, let's see what these PAVEWAYs can do, how copy?"

"Edge, roger. PAVEWAYs hot."

"Stand by for PAVEWAY drop." I could almost feel my F-16 heave from not having to deal with the few hundred pounds of guided explosive that it let out.

The LITENING's guidance system worked like a charm, and two explosions and accompanying plumes of smoke erupted from the first frigate right before we buzzed it.

"Thunderhead to Wardog, confirmed hits on frigate. Guns silenced."

"One down, foxtrot alpha to go." It was a good thing the next boat in line happened to be right in front of me, as I already calibrated the LITENING to strike at the next one. "Stand by for PAVEWAY drop."

Whoever commanded the second boat was starting to figure out what was going on, and had diverted a pair of its 30mm guns toward us in the hope of swatting us away.

"This one's for the McLane," I muttered as I squinted at the LITENING screen to fix my aim before dropping the next bomb.

I rapidly jinked the plane to the side and hit the throttle as soon as I was sure the second PAVEWAY had dropped from my wing. This way I could get a better view of the resulting explosion than the tiny little screen could provide.

One, two, three strikes and the corvette was down for the count. It would have been entertaining had I not realized that I only dropped one bomb.

"Three explosions? I told you to watch your ammo, guys."

"That wasn't me, Blaze," Edge replied with an audible hint of surprise, "Someone's helping us out here."

"Then who-"

"Wardog 1-1, this is 4-1. 4-4 strayed away from the small fry and joined you guys."

A quick glance at my other monitor showed my plane in the center, and what appeared to be two friendly dots marking my tail as we continued onto the third ship in the formation. The glance was only fleeting, as the third one apparently realized that we'd sank the two in front of it and was now aiming one of its missiles at me. As I broke right, one of them continued to follow while I tried to set up another approach.

"1-1 to 4-4. You know you're supposed to shadow with your own flight lead, right?"

"They weren't leaving any for me over there, so I'm stuck with you."

"You serious? Looks like Cap'n Fred taught you guys righ-"

"Missile fired from enemy sub," came that order from Edge I had been dreading, which was then followed by the reply that would've been expected from getting that order.

"...fuck, how did you see that?"

"Submarine missile launch confirmed," added Thunderhead. "Believed to be a burst missile consisting of multiple warheads that separate in mid-air."

"Double fuck," I muttered. "Confirm airburst...range."

The last time a multiple warhead deployment system was actually used during a war was fifteen years ago - and not by the Belkans. Shortly after the signing of the peace treaty that ended the war, a bunch of severely disgruntled pilots from both sides apparently decided to go 'fuck everything' and defected to form some kind of weaponized anarchist commune. The idea would've been laughable even to our own Jefferson City anarchists had they also not acquired the V-2.

The V-2 being, in layman's terms, a giant grenade that used V-1s as shrapnel.

Of course, that black bloc was stopped and the V-2 was destroyed. Didn't stop the Yukes from getting a little inspiration for building their own workers' paradise through a goddamn inferno.

And it certainly didn't leave us with much of a vocabulary to define something that had only seen action for the better part of a week.

_"Initial projections of launch route have blast radius at one-two-hundred to fifty-three-hundred."_

"So there's a gap underneath this time?" Grimm asked.

"They're not stupid enough to blow up their own fleet," I retorted. "Either we fly up to safety or take our chances between the boats and a fiery place."

"That's an easy choice then!" Chopper replied frantically. "C'mon, you nuggets! Climb!"

"1-1 to Wardog Flight. Ascend to angels five immediately. 2-1, 3-1 and 4-1, cover the escape."

Considering the only ones firing at us were helicopters, this actually looked like it would be a piece of cake. If one of them happened to achieve missile lock, I could tell them exactly which button on the F-5's console would deploy the countermeasures. Other than that it was just a matter of pointing the nose at the sun and hitting the afterburners.

_"Wait, we're getting a command override from somewhere. Data Link to A-SAT Targeting System. What the hell is this?"_

"Fuck me, I'm not gonna get caught this time!" I growled to myself, pulling back on the flight stick and pointing the F-16 straight up. It didn't take a rocket surgeon to figure one shade of blue from another.

"Now it's counting down by itself. 9...8...7..."

"You'd all better be following or I swear to God-"

"4...3...2...1..."

At the rate I was climbing, I would pass angels six faster than I could count to it on my fingers. If this was how we could avoid the Scinfaxi's wrath, I figured, there was no way they could surprise me.

Of course that was until a bright white line suddenly streaked through the air almost parallel to my plane, leaving my jaw hanging open. I could almost hear a small thud to represent my jaw thumping on the cockpit floor...and as it turned out, it wasn't something I'd heard myself.

"The sky just lit up!"

_"Missile vaporized in mid-air!"_

"What was that! Did you see that, Kid?"

Only two words came out of my mouth to describe the situation.

"Motherfucking miracles." I said, a clown-like grin spreading across my face under the flight mask.

"Was that the Arkbird?" Edge exclaimed, finally surprised by something.

_"Missile destroyed by a laser beam fired from orbit altitude...the Arkbird! We have the Arkbird!"_

Like the proverbial pot of gold, the so-called 'bird of peace' fluttered at the other end of this cleansing beam of light. But I was in no mood to call out hypocrisy this time.

All of a sudden, it was as if all of the grudges, all of the money diverted away from rebuilding my hometown and all of the seemingly ornamental pipe dreams they inspired didn't matter one bit. Every suspicion that the Arkbird was simply one big money hole dissipated in the laser's searing heat along with what was left of the ballistic missile.

The one grand motherfucking miracle.

I activated the airbrakes, ignoring every warning and letting my plane stall. I pulled back right before it did, in order to let my F-16 fall gracefully back into the fray like a sport diver about to earn perfect 10s from the judges.

_"This is the anti-submarine patrol plane Blue Hound. Submarine detected by sonobuoy. Sound pattern analysis produces a match with the Scinfaxi."_

Backup be damned, we had practically found the Scinfaxi. The only thing I figured could have really gone wrong at that point was us running out of ammo before we were assigned to chase it.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

Before I knew it, we had left the crew quarters building firmly behind us toward the motor pool. Being one of the last in the building, neither of us had a ride waiting until we got to safety. That feeling of panic actually made my laptop feel as light as a paperback book as we darted amidst the hangars.

"How much further?" I panted, trying to catch my breath.

"Not long, they'll be here any mo-"

The MP's words dissolved into a scream as his arm rippled, falling to the ground as footsteps approached from the source of the bang heard in the opposite direction.

"You! Put hands in the air!"

I turned to find myself face-to-face with a fully-geared-up Yuktobanian Naval Infantryman and staring straight into the barrel the AK-74 rifle they used as standard issue.

I was now face-to-face with the enemy in battle for the first time in my entire life, and the one thing I hoped for was that my bladder or bowels wouldn't give out before he decided to shoot me then and there.

Without another word I put my hands in the air, one of them still holding the laptop.

The marine gestured again with his gun and shouted at me to "get on the ground," but like the MP before him his threats were suddenly cut off as soon as the figure that suddenly appeared him applied what looked like a tazer to the back of his neck. The marine collapsed to the ground between me and the wounded MP. At that moment anyone else would have figured they were safe.

But I didn't. The man that had knocked the Yuktobanian marine out happened to be the very Man in the Tropical Shirt I had been pondering only moments earlier.

"Come on, the rest of this bastard's brigade won't be far behind." he replied as he then went to help the MP up without even looking at me.

"Hold on...who are you?" I was more surprised at how angry my words sounded than I was when the Naval Infantryman shot my escort.

"There's a time for introductions and now's not that time," he came back, sounding even angrier as he got the MP back on his feet. The MP's side looked fairly mangled but he could still limp faster than most people could walk. "Grab his gun and let's go!"

Despite figuring he would notice if I didn't, I hastily grabbed the fallen AK and clapped it against the laptop, following him with both items held under my arm like books and hoping I didn't misfire before we got to relative safety amidst the trees and foliage by the roads.

"What the hell are you still doing here!" I finally burst out.

"Sweeping up the rest of the mess," he continued, peering around the bushes with a sidearm he'd drawn before tending to the MP's wound. "I've been over at the port area since last night."

The sense the mystery man made about his absence did nothing to quell my fear or anxiety.  
Neither did the horizon appearing to light up with a bright flash, followed some moments after by a low rumbling and a sudden breeze.

"Dammit, they couldn't stop it..." The mystery man's cold voice seemed to betray some kind of emotion as he looked through the trees toward the source of the light.

It was probably at least 80 degrees out, but the breeze was almost as cold as the death brought by what had to be a similar kind of explosion to the one over the Narrows last week.

"Stop what?" I didn't want to know the answer to that question, as much as I feared I would soon find that out.

"Come on, our evac's gonna be leaving soon." the mystery man continued, grimacing as he did. "We have to hurry."

I fumbled the stolen AK-74 into something more closely resembling the firing position, feeling myself gulp as the three of us began to make our way toward one of the island's side roads. The rocks and fallen foliage blanketing the roads began to weave their way into the sandals I'd packed for casual base strolling, making me regret not wearing the army-issue boots this morning instead.

But the most disturbing feelings were in my arms, where the AK-74 made contact with my skin and clothes. It was still hard enough for me to comprehend the fact that I now actually held a combat firearm with an intent to kill, even in self-defense.

As I briefly glanced at the mystery man who had ironically become my only chance at survival let alone escape, I wondered exactly what he'd been through - and for how long - to keep as calm as he did right now.

"Looks like the coast is clear for now," the mystery man muttered seemingly to himself as the three of us took cover beside some foliage on the other side of the road. With the heat off, he had taken the time to apply some pressure to the MP's wounds.

I was already busy scanning the perimeter lest the Naval Infantryman's buddies returned, before realizing that I had absolutely no idea what part of the island we were in.

"Okay then...which way do we go?" I then blurted out, before I heard a distant ringing.

"Away from that beam." the mystery man replied with a smirk, before pointing up at the sky.

It was already close to the middle of the day, but the sun was no longer the only shining star.

* * *

**2LT Ricardo Villa**  
**3 Minutes Earlier**

"PAVEWAY out. Boom, baby!"

I never felt more empowered as a person than the few minutes I knew that the Arkbird was protecting us, and that was counting all the ethnic empowerment events that I had in high school.

We had the enemy fleet running scared, and what few troops they could land getting desperate with only the Admirals to back them up. Even better, they had been so confused by our application of extreme firepower that they weren't really able to draw a bead on our nuggets.

"1-1 to flight, gimme a sitrep."

"This is 2-1. 2-4 got dinged a bit but we're doing fine."

"3-1 here. Looks like the ones that are still floating are turning back."

"Oh, no! They're launching more missiles! Number 3, number 4, number 5...!"

"Well dick." I muttered to myself. "That broke my combo."

Clearly all good things had to come to an end. Come to think about it, it was pretty easy for them to figure out that the Arkbird had to recharge its laser every time it fired. But fortunately for me I remembered what I had intended to do only a few minutes earlier when threatened with the exact same thing.

I figured that they would have to throw a pretty big wrench into it to really mess it up.

"Flight of 5 incoming from Aristov, bearing 2-6-5 angels 5 and closing fast."

Which, unfortunately for me, is exactly what they did.

"Shitshitshit guys," I replied, turning to face the bogeys incoming on my radar. "1-1 to wing leaders, get ready to catch these fuckers."

"Incoming missile, evade-" was the last thing out of 4-1's mike before a sudden burst of static. The next announcement from Thunderhead told me exactly why.

"More like angels right-a-fucking-bove us!" Chopper exclaimed. The Fulcrums had probably been on afterburners all this time.

"1-1 to wing, take 'em out, protect those nuggets and get 'em to safety!"

"This is Edge, I'm on it!"

But apart from the wing leaders, they preferred to keep chasing the newbies we'd picked up rather than just shoot them down outright. One little look at my altimeter explained precisely why.

Now I was starting to regret not being suspicious of all the money poured into the Arkbird. If only because I was now angry and hoping in vain that they'd somehow kept the Yukes' laser up there so they could at least destroy more than one missile at once before recharging.

"Missile vaporized in midair."

"They're not gonna destroy all of those missiles at once!" I shouted, trying to distract one of the Fulcrums by running interference. "Bug out of your dogfights and ascend to angels 6!

"This is 4-4, I've got two of 'em on my six! Someone help me!" Shadow sounded almost like a little kid running from jocks trying to take his candy. He was always good at following, which naturally meant his skills amounted to jack shit in leading.

"Blaze- er, captain, we can't risk it!" Grimm shouted.

I would have probably flipped the fuck out through the cacophony of panicked orders now that the Fulcrums had arrived to stir things up. I had already ascended to Angels 7, my body pressed against my seat.

"Fuck me, I'll go save him. Get to safety," I said, before chuckling darkly.

I looped back out of the climb and pulled back into the furball, nudging my F-16 through split-second impulses to find the one nugget pursued by two Fulcrums before I completed a perfect dive into the goddamn ocean. The two bright green blurs streaking to my port side on the HMD were my best guess, my organs pressed against my spine going upward as I pulled up to tail them.

"10 seconds to impact! Eight...Seven..."

Despite the speed, I managed to point my F-16's nose at one of their tailboosters. An almost reflexive burst of cannon fire only dinged them, but it did scare them off his tail.

"Thanks Blaz- I mean 1-1...I mean-" Shadow's plane thankfully hadn't been hit, but it was quivering almost like he was.

"Six...five..."

"Just shut the fuck up and hug the goddamn ocean!"

The next thing I knew my heart almost literally leapt into my mouth as I finished the dive, landing.

"Y-yes, sir!"

"...4...3...2...impact!"

If I had to give credit to the Red Air Force for something, it was that they actually had the capacity to learn. Keeping the nuggets busy until the last second when they could safely get out of harms way was devious as it was fucking clever. I only hoped I had been more clever with Shadow literally behind me - relatively speaking, the one place I shouldn't have been.

The entire explosion and the accompanying supernova occurred above me, my F-16's canopy almost cracking as light and who knew what else what rained down from above.

"2, 3, 4? Shadow, pick up!"

After the explosion, only relative silence.

"This is 4-4...I'm still here!" came a fuzzy reply.

"Holy fuck, you're alive."

"Yeah...the shockwave really rattled the old thing...I don't think I can keep up..."

"Anyone else still responding?"

"3-2 here, Edge helped me to safety. 3-4's here too."  
"This is 2-3... I barely made it out and my control panel's going FUBAR. Requesting permission to bug out."

Silence being the perfect opportunity for contemplation between metaphorically shitting my pants at my inevitable demise, I realized there was one thing left to do.

Bartlett was still missing, and if Yuktobania's interrogation techniques were as harsh as believed, he was as good as dead or turned. I wasn't going to bail out here between a furball and a fireball and expect the same treatment.

"Wardog 1-1 to all surviving planes, set course to zero-niner-zero angels ten and bug the fuck out. We'll cover your escape."

"4-4 to 1-1...you sure?"

"I'm not gonna lose you guys."

"...okay, I'll try."

_"Second flight of bandits incoming from Aristov, bearing 2-5-0 angels ten,"_ came more wonderful news from the AWACS.

_"This is Sand Island Base Defense! Shelling has intensified! We can't hold out much longer!"_

"Motherfuck...we had a good run, right guys?" I groaned, chuckling darkly.

"Captain...don't give up!" Grimm begged.

I smirked under my mask. "They'll be fine. Ain't nothing but the Admirals out there."

_"Wardog, you have reinforcements incoming. Leviathan is rolling in hot from your three o'clock at angels three, ETA 30 seconds."_

"So we'll just try to hold 'em off until then, right?"

_"We have no choice. Just weave through the missiles and continue attacking the ships."_

"Oh yeah, just weave through the missiles! What are you, nuts!"

"Chill the fuck out, man. We got this. What's another 30 seconds?" I said, as my missile lock warning started to go off. My guess was the Fulcrum I dinged didn't like being reminded he wasn't untouchable, and decided to have his revenge when he found out the Scinfaxi didn't kill me.

I banked a hard left and gunned it to the side of the smoking wrecks of the disabled fleet, hoping I could somehow use them as a giant evasion slalom. The Fulcrum kept up pretty easily though, if only because I happened to be more shaken about than it was - especially after the missile lock warning turned into an incoming missile alarm.

My fingers began scrounging across the control panel for the countermeasure switch practically out of goddamn reflex as I turned around, only to hear the alarm suddenly go dead for a reason I was about to find out.

There was only a fireball where the MiG was last pursuing me - and a radio transmission that essentially told me that whether I had found religion in the last week or the other way around, it certainly wasn't done trying to pay me its dividends.

"Levi 2-5 to Wardog. Looks like we got here just in time."

Being the oft deliverer of sarcasm, I knew it when I heard it, as calm and professional as it sounded. And saw it on my radar. With a new flock of Fulcrums incoming, I also knew when sarcasm wasn't exactly welcome. This was one of those times.

But hell if I wasn't silently thankful for backup.

"Wardog 1-1 to Leviathan..." I replied, not trying too hard to hold it in, "...we got a real Charlie Foxtrot here. Sorry to disappoint you." I muttered as I leveled out, before talking to Chopper. "Here comes the cavalry."

"Yeah, 10 seconds too late." Chopper added. "Told you the Levys were real though."

"Levi 2-5 to flight, you are cleared to go weapons hot. Mop up the rest of the fleet and get the nuggets home safe."

I eyed my radar. Sure enough, there were more friendly markers entering the furball, scattering the Fulcrums while our surviving nuggets fled safely away.

"Wait," Grimm suddenly interjected. "If they're going after the fleet AND protecting the nuggets then what are we going after?"

Before any of us could reply, Grimm got an answer to his question before he'd finished asking in the form of another pillar of God's wrath diving into the ocean close to the horizon as I backed away from the furball.

_"...Confirmed hit on Scinfaxi, picking up sounds of main ballast blow."_

"Ho-lee shit boys." And here I was thinking that the damn thing had hid behind the Admirals.

_"The Scinfaxi is surfacing!"_

And yay verily did the hulking metal figure of the Red Navy's most powerful weapon (to my knowledge) break the surface of the infinite blue ahead of me. Even at a distance, I could tell it was much larger than the McLane. How it was able to break the surface so quickly was probably something for the DoD skunkworks to figure out.

I tilted the F-16 to approach it from the side. I was suddenly as curious to get a closer look at what the hell the Yukes had really developed as I was to destroy it. The damn thing was drawing me in like a moth.

Until the green flashes on my HMD warned me I was getting too close to the zapper coils.

"Aircraft launching from enemy submarine!"

In this case, the zapper coils were another swarm of Yak-41 Freestyle VTOLs that began to ascend from the Scinfaxi's inner carrier deck like bees from a hive. I turned up the throttle and fumbled the console to switch to the pair of Sidewinders mounted on my wingtips.

Each of our F-16s carried Sidewinders on our wingtips 'just in case.' Just in case the helicopters got a bead on the nuggets and our cannons couldn't do the job. Just in case we had time to take on the fighters before the burst missile's flash and Levy's arrival.

Third 'just in case' was the charm, with enough distance between my plane and the Freestyles to achieve a missile lock they couldn't simply dodge.

"Roger. Blue Hound, stand by. Wardog, engage the enemy aircraft if you see the opportunity."

"Levy to Wardog. We're still handling the Fulcrums. Take care of the Freestyles and we'll try to help you over there."

"Fuck. Gimme an ammo count guys, if you're out, it's Freestyle duty again."

"This is Grimm, I'm all out."

"I got one," Chopper replied. "I'll help you out with the fighters though."

"Cool," I added, pulling away from the sub to get a good PAVEWAY aim. "Edge, you ready to end this?"

"I've still got two PAVEWAYs. I can help you, Captain," Edge replied.

I continued to boost away from the Freestyle formation, before arming my lone pair of Sidewinders and circling back to face the Scinfaxi at a distance. The Freestyles were already catching up quickly, and once again this looked like I would have some easy kills.

"Enemy sub launching burst missile, brace for impact."

"Shit, just when we finally get a break," Chopper added.

It was then, however, that something else snapped into place in my mind. "Can you confirm detonation range?"

"Roger. Estimated detonation range of angels three to six."

I clenched my jaw and smirked. "1-1 to wing, time to turn the tables."

"You can't be thinking what I'm thinking," Chopper sounded like he wanted to be my conscience instead of Grimm.

The missile warning indicator began to go off as a Freestyle latched onto my shaken craft, and in response I pulled up - and then leveled out - right in the middle of the detonation zone.

"We got about 20 ticks to pull these flies into the goddamn zapper, who's with me?"

"What the hell, let's do this." Fortunately for me, Chopper was clearly half-hearted about becoming my conscience. "I got two trying to take me out anyway."

"Uh...I think I'll just take out the ones that escape."

"Captain, you're being reckless!" Edge shouted.

With the Freestyles slowing up to avoid the missile, I immediately made a break for the middle of their formation. I then started to circle them like a motorcycle in one of those giant carnival sphere cages. Knowing exactly how it felt to pull off one of those redneck rollercoasters took most of my attention away from the oncoming countdown - and the fact that Chopper had to be helping me as well.

"10 seconds to impact! 8...7...6..."

The one thing I knew I was doing was keeping my finger off the trigger button.

"...5...4..."

"1-1 to wing, hit the floor!"

"Roger! Diving now!" Chopper shouted. I was now too lost in my G-force-induced intoxication that the only way I knew I was escaping was the fact that I was literally trying to fly into the sun. Hell, I was too lost to wonder if Chopper was gonna make it out safe.

"3...2...1..."

My peripheral vision went white, my radar clearing up as we had turned the tables on the Freestyle flight with their own tactics.

"Fuck...nice going team..." The explosion wasn't loud enough to cause ringing in my ears again, but apart from my own chatter everything seemed to go silent, leaving me feeling more intoxicated than half the Pac-Coast rap cartels off my own maneuvers.

"Golf-Delta Kid, I nearly went to Bright Hill in the cockpit!" Chopper shouted. "Don't you ever have us pull shit like that again!"

"It worked, din't it?" I chuckled as I looped my plane over to physically observe the results of our Red-assisted handiwork.

"Heh, yeah, I guess it did," Chopper replied, implying that his outburst was at least half-joking.

We'd gotten our revenge and served it white-hot. At that moment I was pretty sure nothing could have ruined my mood.

"Base Command to Wardog 1-1, 4-4 just painted the runway."

And just like that, Murphy's Law came back for seconds from Port Saint Hewlett and raped me sober without the condom.

My hands seemed to crack the flight stick in their grip as I pulled back into another stall and switched the LITENING system back on. The dissipating explosion and my temporary shockwave-induced deafness gave way to the rapidly-approaching shape of the Scinfaxi in the ocean.

"Bastards!"

The instant the LITENING system could make out its shape, I sent the last pair of PAVEWAYS streaking downward at the giant metal wwhale. My jaw was practically wired shut as I watched the twin contrails streaking down faster than my plane could catch up, fueled not just by high-grade propellant but the raging desire to finally avenge everyone they had killed.

It was the kind of hatred that could only lead to sweet justice, and we were delivering it.

"This one's for Shadow, you red fucks."

* * *

**10 October 2010  
****Nordland Public Broadcasting - Radio One (N-R1)**

_We begin tonight with an update from Cinigrad._

_Yuktobania's Prime Minister Seryozha Nikanor has ordered the immediate dismissal of his cabinet following a series of failed offensives against the Osean Federation earlier this month. The series of attacks by the Yuktobanian military on Osean military and civilian installations left at least 3,200 people dead on both sides and caused more than 500 million zollars worth of damage._

_Serious questions remain as to the intentions behind these assaults, as well as their initial cause. Sources close to the Politburo point to judgments made by the Defense Ministry following OADF attacks on VVS air patrols, as well as projections of imminent Osean military buildup._

_The ODF maintains that there was no such buildup, and that they had acted in self-defense when the air patrols entered their territory._

_Amidst plans for high-level talks between the two countries, a bill authorizing military reprisal is currently being debated in Osea's Council. The bill has strong bipartisan support in both houses and is expected to pass before the end of the month. President Harling is also expected use his veto should it pass. The President denounced any plans for reprisal, in a statement made in response to calls for retaliation published in several newspapers earlier this week._

_"We share in the grief and misery inflicted upon this country by the attacks. But we stand by our belief that spreading this misery will not help us find the answers we are looking for."_

_Both houses of Council remain extremely critical of the President's handling of the situation. Councilman Paul McDade:_

_"Our troops suffered the consequences of turning our backs to the Yuktobanian threat after 40 years of staring them down. We as a nation cannot afford to let this happen again!"_

_Their sentiment is reflected in public opinion polls showing an overwhelming support for retaliatory action against Yuktobania, with 61% of Oseans polled supporting military intervention over 32% supporting AN sanctions._

_A resolution condemning the recent attacks is currently being debated by the AN Security Council. Although no sanctions are being discussed both Osea and Yuktobania have criticized it as being biased toward the other, and are expected to use their veto._

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea  
1752 hrs. **

And just like that, it seemed, the war had ended.

There was something creepy about the sea as Chopper, Blaze and I lounged on what had become our 'usual' chairs at the end of Runway 09. Or rather, the 'usual' view of the sea had become a lot more haunting as we sat there and watched the sun set over the horizon the same way we did since I got here.

Nothing had physically changed. The MDF's cleanup fleet and cordon now protected the island again. We arrived at the port area last week only to find the Scinfaxi had been sunk and the local ODF contingent were able to surround the Naval Infantrymen.

The last time I saw the Man in the Tropical Shirt, he disappeared into the dying chaos at the port area to take the MP to the infirmary, and I hadn't seen him since. I was much more thankful to have that AK-74 confiscated.

In any event, the Wardogs and I were already starting to put that behind us...though the thought of exactly how many bodies had been taken into Davy Jones' Locker within 20 miles of the island through their actions alone lingered quite literally in front of us.

"Hey, tabloid guy...Genette," Villa began, craning his head over to face me. "When're we gonna launch into Cinigrad?"

"The Journal's not a tabloid, Blaze." I sighed exasperatedly, not allowing even Villa to sully the name of the publication I called home.

"Whatever. The way the media's hyping everything it might as well be," he groaned, turning his gaze away. Clearly the war hadn't just sharpened his fighting acumen, but also his already sword-like tongue. "Besides, it's all down to Council's new War Bill."

Since the end of that second raid, the last place I wanted to be was the cafeteria. Not because the food had become unedible, but because Weazel News was still the only thing allowed on that television set. Commentator after commentator took their turns bashing Harling and practically praying for retaliation. I ended up seeking refuge in one of the few internet radio channels that hadn't been blocked: Nordland's public news channel.

"The CIC's probably gonna veto it, so we'll be fine." I replied calmly, looking up at the clouds set afire by the sun. After hanging out with them, I'd started to learn their lingo a little bit. "They'd barely get enough votes to override him if they could."

"Damn, Kid, you seem really anxious to wanna sink your teeth into them over there." Chopper then interjected. Sitting between the two pilots, I was literally caught in the middle of their war on words.

"It's just..." Villa then shook his head, suddenly at a lack of words.

"Are you still thinking of Shadow?" I asked. "You know he'll be out of hospital in a couple weeks."

It turned out that one of their nuggets had managed to punch out before his plane crashed, landing on the beach not a few meters from where we sat now. Unfortunately, in his panic he had prematurely disengaged the parachute, leaving him with a nasty concussion.

"Yeah," he grunted, clenching his jaw. "And the _McLane_ too. Feels like I'm just letting them..._get away_ with it."

"Dude, you're just obsessing," Chopper replied dismissively. He then sat up a little to face Blaze, before counting reasons on his fingers. "We sank their monster sub, destroyed their bombers and sent the rest of 'em crying to their mommies. Soon as everything else settles down, even the hippies'll be throwing us parades."

"I know, but..._that's it_?" Villa replied, gesturing with his hands outward at the ocean and all the horrors it submerged underneath. "We just go back to what things used to be? I know we can't bring 'em back from the dead but...fuck."

"Nothing left but political wrangling at this point." I shrugged. "I don't think anybody wants another war to happen."

"Pfft. Definitely not Nagase." Villa grunted. "Jesus, how is someone like her in our military? We're war machines, she got no right to speak about peace."

"Seriously, man, I'm starting to worry about you," Chopper's voice was getting even more frustrated as he sat up and leaned forward. "There's nothing in our job description says we can't hope for the world to get better."

"But she's just expecting POTOF to wave some kinda magic wand and_ expect_ it to be over?" Villa then burst out. "The fatcats on Bright Hill don't know how these fucking Reds really affected us. We need this justice...we need to not come home as fucking murderers and babykillers for once."

There was something despairing about Villa's voice as he spoke, as if he was saying it out of more than just his recent war experience.

"That's what Chopper's saying," I finally butted in, giving Blaze a stern glance as I spoke. "Even if whatever happened up there last month was our fault, it wouldn't justify the Yukes lashing out like they did. Harling knows this, _and_ we have the Arkbird."

"What 'tabloid guy' said," Chopper added, repeating Blaze's slur sarcastically. "This might turn out to be just one big misunderstanding, but we're gonna come out of this heroes for defending ourselves."

"Heroes...I don't know..." Villa then continued. "...our heroism ain't gonna bring Bartlett home, will it?"

"Yeah," Chopper's tone became solemn. "They ain't gonna be rolling out the red carpet for him..."

"Even the FFIC thinks we're expendable." Villa muttered. "They don't give a shit about what we do, even if it's "good." What the hell caused Edge to think any different?"

Neither of us could think of a reply, nor did Villa find a way to rub it in for our inability to.

The answer to Villa's question, as it happened, was an answer for a more appropriate time.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**22 October 2010**  
**6750 feet above Waldron County, SV**

_"Hey, get back in your seat! Don't approach the...hey, what are you doing!"_

The longer we went without combat, the more Chopper, Edge and Grimm had eased themselves out of the 'war mood.' It was easy for them, since their first hard taste lasted only a few weeks. But where they were returning to normalcy, I figured I was probably waxing more into PTSD or the first symptoms of it. I knew the feeling of inadequacy had to factor into it at least.

Shadow left the hospital and was shipped further inland for recovery. Word got through about how he owed me for saving his life, but that only made those feelings even worse.

_"This is transport plane...uh...Mother Goose One. The Captain's been shot."_

Making First Lieutenant for saving Osea three times in two weeks was supposed to feel underwhelming because it was only one rank up. Instead, to be quite honest I couldn't have felt either way about it, and that didn't help me feel any less inadequate anyway.

_"There was a spy in the crew. Uh oh, two of the engines have shut down."_

_"Hey, what kinda cargo you got in there? Is it something dangerous?"_

The news - or lack thereof - didn't help either. The political hot air and the trauma the invasion caused still made the headlines, but as days went by they didn't get nearly as much airtime as whatever the hell was going on stateside or in Vinewood. Even Weazel News' commentators talked more about how those 'damn dirty liberals' weren't even going to make any significant changes to the national budget instead of why they hadn't bombed Cinigrad yet.

On the other hand, things weren't going so well at Cinigrad either - and most of what I heard from _there_ was skewed through the FFIC's mouth.

_"The captain's dead and the co-pilot was wounded by a stray bullet. Tommy's holding the stick now, but he's just a secretary. He's never piloted a plane before."_

Eventually, I guess I got used to this feeling of inadequacy. Instead of counting the days to when the war would flare up again, I looked forward to my next 48-hour leave and savoring Mom's home cooking.

Some time later the four of us were assigned to combat air patrol above the farmlands of bumfuck nowhere in Savannah State, just inside the mainland. It was our fourth one since we sank the Red Navy's finest, and one that I particularly wasn't looking forward to. Not so much for the fact that I was going in the first place, but because I figured it would have ended up like the last three: without "incident."

_"So who're you?"_

_"I guess you would call me the...cargo of this plane."_

So I certainly was not looking forward to helping a damaged C-130 transport plane on some kind of secret mission weave through a safe passage corridor through our national anti-air defense network only to be greeted by MiG-31 Foxhound interceptors on the other side.

And the hell if I expected that transport to be carrying a V-V-VIP.

"Could you tell me how to control this thing? I'll relay everything to him."

"Anyone not busy?" I asked, clearly too distracted with the tail end of a Foxhound interceptor to figure out how to operate a goddamn transport plane.

"Lower your altitude," Nagase replied. "Prepare for emergency landing."

"An emergency landing? The ground's full of electric generator windmills!"

The Akerson Wind Farm had been built in the early 2000s as part of the post-Ulysses eco-rush to conserve whatever resources we had left before another meteor eventually wiped us out. Even though the windmills' power only made it halfway to the tip of Cape Landers, most were surprised by the fact that the project had gone through at all with Savannah's state government in the pocket of the local nuclear power builders.

"Could you shoot those down for us?" the Cargo suddenly asked.

"What!"

"Blaze, it's your call."

After finally being able to clip one of the Foxhound's wings off with a Sidewinder, I found myself just enough time to make said call.

"Between national security and a few windmills, I'm not siding with the windmills," I barked before looking at my radar. "Looks like the OPFOR is fleeing so we got them all to ourselves."

I'd imagined that we'd end up doing the state government a big favor with this anyway, so I wasn't feeling too guilty about what we were about to do.

"Let's do it."

"Okay, let's do this. Are you still there, ma'am? With the lovely voice...miss..."

"First Lieutenant Kei Nagase, sir."

"And I'm Chopper!"

"That's a good name too."

"First Lieutenant Ricardo Villa. Sorry if my friends are a little anxious," I replied as I leveled off and looked ahead of the transport plane's path. "We've never had to cut down windmills before."

"You're not the only one, Lieutenant Villa," the Cargo replied with the reassuring voice of a politician as the first windmills came into aiming range. "Tommy's going to try to landing now. He's doing his best, but he's never done this before either. I don't know if we'll make it, so I want to thank you guys before we go."

"Looks like we have three of them directly ahead of the transport," I replied. "We're gonna have to saw them down manually. Line yourselves up behind the transport so you know which ones to hit."

Because the windmills weren't lighting up on my radar or HMD as targets - and we weren't equipped with any anti-ground missiles to knock them out of line either, we would be reduced to sawing their bases off with the vulcan cannon.

As I pulled in behind the transport plane and lined up the windmills ahead in my reticule, I was at least lucky that unlike the Red Navy, these weren't exactly moving targets. We just had to take them down before Mother Goose One did it with their fuselage.

Approaching from a distance gave me plenty of time to knock down the first one. The fact that I'd mainly kept to Sidewinders also left me plenty of vulcan cannon shells to chew it up with. A short squeeze of the trigger soon as the base lined up with the reticule left the first windmill's base mangled enough for the rest of the structure to buckle forward.

"One down, two to go," I replied, pitching to the side to avoid getting timber'd by my own tree. "Aim as close to the base as you can!"

A little more pitching and yawing helped me line up the second one in my reticule, just as the blades started to turn. A couple of the shots flared up as they connected with the base, but the damn windmill continued to stand as I pulled away rather than play windmill limbo. I cursed inwardly as I pulled up and banked around for another run.

"Hey Kid, don't give yourself an headache aiming at every single one," Chopper barked as I leveled out.

I then shook my head and squinted to find out which of them I missed, only to find that Edge had taken that one out.

_"Altitude 100 feet. Landing gear down...just keep going."_

I yawed to the right to aim at another one near it only to find that Chopper was also working on it.

"Got one! That's what friends are for, man!" Chopper celebrated as I pulled back to circle around again.

There was just one more windmill in front of them - and third time was the charm, as one more vulcan cannon burst tore the base out from under it. Mother Goose One would've seen it falling back and away from them as I climbed back up to altitude.

"And that's timber," I commented, raising my left fist to my face in as much triumph as I could squeeze out of this one moment in time.

_"That's a pretty good runway there. A fine place for a landing."_

After the windmills, there was only a vast expanse of grazing pasture and a bunch of side roads before some woods a couple of miles away.

I pulled around one more time to see the gigantic transport rumbling along the aforementioned wheat fields. The giant transport wavered a little like a celebrity performing a DUI test, but 'Tommy' was able to keep it falling over. It would probably have been much more of a spectacle to whoever might have found themselves a lot closer to the transport's path.

"Mother Goose One, landing confirmed."

"This is Archer. Surrounding airspace is clear of enemy aircraft. Everything looks A-OK, how copy?"

"Good copy, Archer. Wardog 1 to team, return to formation and keep CAP over the perimeter until Mother Goose One is secure."

I scanned my radar one more time, finding that we were alone in the vicinity with the Cargo. Our OPFOR had to be at least a quarter of the way back to whatever part of Yuktobania they flew out from.

It was then I realized that I was smiling. Yeah, there was an 'incident' this time, and I still hadn't been able to satisfy my craving for action. But for once the drama had been dialled back _and_ we probably only caused a few hundred thousand zollars' worth of damage and scarred some farmland rather than leave the seas running red with blood and molten metal.

The four of us quietly banked away in formation, and it would be another 30 seconds before the full realization of what we'd _really_ done hit me in the face like a slippery fish.

Things went better than they could have gone, and there was only one unanswered question in my mind - one I asked while Nagase was having her little chat with the Cargo.

"Wardog 1 to Team...did we just save POTOF?"

"Looks like we did..." Grimm replied.

"And he was headed to freaking North Point to talk with the Yukes?"

"Kid, your loose lips are gonna sink the _McLane_ if you keep this up," Chopper replied, half-stern. "But yeah, we're probably not gonna be allowed to talk about it when we get back. _Again."_

"Well then, I think we just saved him from the freaking Reds again, unless we were _officially hallucinating_."

"Kid, I don't like where you're going with this," Chopper added forbodingly.

"I'm just saying, guys. How'd _they_ know exactly where Mother Goose One would be headed _and_ get a spy in there? That's total inter-branch Kilo Golf Bravo shit right there."

"...that's a good point there, Captain." Grimm replied. "We only knew they were on a mission when they told us."

"And then they appeared out of nowhere to kill him in person." I could hear myself getting angry for the first time this mission. You think he's gonna wanna make peace with them for that?"

"Okay, I'm gonna channel Edge here but the man got re-elected for actually keeping his promises. In the meantime-" Chopper paused suddenly. "Welp. I'm at bingo fuel."

I then checked my own gauges and was forced to concur. "Same here. Looks like it's a straight shot back to base unless backup shows up."

And speaking of the backup...

_"This is the Osean Air Defense Force 8492nd Squadron. We observed the landing on our radar, can you see us?"_

I checked my radar, finding four friendlies approaching from our eleven o'clock. As I turned to see my HMD light up four F-15 Strike Eagles marked with blue friendly IFFs, I started to wonder why we always had to wait for the damn cavalry. Then again, would they really be the cavalry if we didn't have to wait?

"The damn cavalry again," I muttered before replying. "Good copy 8492nd. Have the civil authorities been notified?"

There were tiny flickers of light in the distance where even the typical backwater sheriff would have been notified by the sounds of explosions and the constant rain of debris and falling windmills.

_"Affirmative, they were already notified beforehand. You can leave the rest to us."_

"Roger 8492nd. Take care of them for us." Nagase confirmed.

_"Sure thing."_

And just like that, our mission was over. I don't believe I wanted to know what happened to 'Mr. Cargo' on the way out. I just wanted to get some sleep.

I'd need it considering what 'Mr. Cargo' would have in store for his beloved armed forces in the next few weeks.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**25 October 2010  
Sand Island AFB, Osea**

By the afternoon of the 25th I was probably feeling more tense than I'd been since the last Yuktobanian assault on this island.

Halloween was near, but even if costumes were forbidden, the base hadn't even started putting up the decorations. In fact, they had been on constant alert status for much of the past 48 hours, as if they were preparing for yet another invasion attempt.

Although I shared that feeling with the rest of the base in general, I was tense for a decision I made that would seal my involvement with this conflict- and my fate.

Feeling confident from the responses I continued to receive in my e-mail inbox for my _Four Wings of Sand Island_ article, I decided to move up the ranks when it came to my interview subjects. But my attempt to get close to Base Commander Orson Perrault was foiled by Hamilton, who explained he was in an even worse mood than he normally was.

When even Hamilton couldn't give me an answer, I ended up having to ask Edge. And the news wasn't all good.

The Arkbird's power generator had been severely damaged by planted explosives sent up from another SSTO launch. Although its backup power supply was keeping them from drifting out into the endless black expanse, it wasn't nearly enough power to fire the chemical laser that helped turn the tide of the last invasion. And nobody could find out if the _Scinfaxi_ had a sister sub lurking in the distance.

The only thing that kept Yuktobania from trying to attack again was the fact that most of their available landing craft were underwater or on a Kronus Corporation truck or boat on the way to the scrapyard.

Yet it wasn't the threat of another imminent attack that had gotten me tense as the phone call I received the moment I got back to my room.

"Mr. Genette, you have an outside call from the Bureau..."

"Sure, I'll take it."

"Holy shit, Albert, nice to see you're all right," came the startled voice of my supervisor, the Oured Bureau Chief.

"All right? I'm fine, but it's been busy as all hell here."

"You haven't heard, have you?" he asked, clearly insinuating I missed something big.

"Just...something bad happened with Harling and we're all on alert just in case."

Edge had also let me in on their strange sortie the other day. Apparently they had stopped Yuktobanian interceptors from shooting down a secret transport plane that was carrying President Harling. They saved the plane, and Harling was apparently recovered by local authorities - but that was all they were told during the debriefing.

"Oh, it's bad." the chief continued. "Someone tried to assassinate Harling on his way to some high-level summit. And I'm guessing you already know about the Arkbird."

"Yeah, word got around?" I replied suspiciously. "What about the War Bill?"

"It was already on his desk in the Oval Office, but the Constitution says he's too incapacitated to veto it."

Fear jolted through my spine. I opened my mouth to try to tell him, but realized I would have been in breach of the non-disclosure agreement.

"Incapacitated? You mean they got him after all?"

"The Pacifica bureau says they flew him out of the Mount Sion General ICU soon as he was stable, and he invoked the Succession clause soon as he could write."

I put my hand to my mouth in shock, recalling my social studies class. Succession referred to the constitutional clause where the Vice President became the Acting President when the President was unable to fulfill their executive duties due to death, resignation or being incapacitated.

"So that leaves it to the Vice President-"

The next three words out of the receiver were as unexpected as they were surprising.

"Jason signed it."

"Oh God." The very words were barely audible coming from my mouth.

Vice President Jason Appelrouth had been more subdued than his Council counterparts in calling for retaliation. When asked, he'd even demurred that responsibility to the President out of respect for the 'balance of powers.' But perhaps coming from the same party as Herbert Walker meant he had to eventually prove his loyalty.

"Yep. First thing he did when he got into the office. And he declared war in a speech before Council this morning. Don't you even get Weazel News over there?"

My free hand had already moved up to my forehead on the one day I decided to try skipping lunch. "So that means we're at war again. What about the Yukes?"

"They've gone dark. Our friends in Soyuz got nothing but official statements from the Prime Minister's Office condemning the hostilities and promising to defend the Motherland."

"...so what do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Quite frankly that's up to you. You're our most experienced man in the field right now before Jonas Stromberg films himself stepping out of a landing craft. If you want to go ahead, I'll pull some strings to make sure you get our full support."

I couldn't feel any more conflicted about what I hoped would happen. On the one hand, after my close brush with death the last place I wanted to be was at the front line. I honestly could not say I was ready to spend more time as a war reporter, not when it was pure luck that saved me from a horrible death.

But unlike the Gebeto farming collective or the Wielvakian city planners, I'd really found 'interview subjects' I could relate to. And as I looked at my laptop - which currently had my little investigation 'clipboard' on its screen with new additions for their last sortie - I had that nagging feeling that I couldn't just leave this mystery unsolved.

"Okay. I'll stay," I muttered like I didn't have a choice.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." By that point not even I knew what I was saying.

"If you want to back out, just talk to Hamilton. I'm not going to force you to stay."

He didn't have to force me. The weight of my unsolved investigation did that on its own.

I now hoped I would be able to finally find the answers I sought - and I hoped I wouldn't do it alone.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**1 November 2010**  
**3000 feet above Volna Beach, Skladka Oblast**  
**1612 hrs.**

The beachhead crept out of the fog in front of us like a swamp monster. Underneath us, our own minions braved the rough seas toward a hostile land and whatever horrors waited in store for them.

_"Move! Move! Hit that beach and start running! There's no time to kiss the ground!"_

It was a cold and stormy afternoon, and a cliched sense of dread filled my body as I got my first ever look at an actual foreign country. The new frontier that was Yuktobania looked to be everything Perrault spewed about them as an Evil Empire, and we weren't simply flying into it.

_"Landing confirmed. Continue to provide top support for the armored vehicles!"_

Today our F-16s packed LITENING-enabled JDAMs to help support the Delta Company landing. That we were all Delta Company had for air support would have been mocking them considering Alpha, Bravo and Charlie Company had dedicated strike teams flying F-15s and A-10s brought in from across the ocean while the MDF figured out whether it was safe to send their other carriers yet.

On the other hand, they had _us_. The heroes from Sand Island, the ones that sunk the Scinfaxi.

And hell, I was feeling pretty psyched.

_"Delta Company to Wardog, heavy fire from bunkers at quadrant 4-Juliet-1-3 preventing rendezvous with Charlie Company. Requesting close air support."_

"Good copy Delta, Wardog 1 inbound at angels 5, standby for JDAM and ready to move after bomb drop."

Even with the LITENING system lighting up the enemy bunkers, the weather affected disability enough that we still had to mark them by sight so we wouldn't just make a multi-million-zollar crater on the other side of the hill they were on.

"This operation is pointless. These guys are just gonna storm in, head-on, following orders. That's how war is fought. That's why I hate it!"

"The hell do you think we're doing now? You wanna blame someone, blame the politicos that authorize this shit." I retorted half-heartedly.

After some tight maneuvering to avoid some surprise ZSU fire, I was able to draw a bead on that bunker and successfully administer the JDAM treatment.

_"Delta Company to Wardog. Moving to rendezvous point, good job."_

"Copy Delta Company, moving on."

"How did the President authorize an escalation like this? This is insane!"

I was surprised that Chopper didn't see it coming after that assassination attempt. The spy that had gotten onto his plane had apparently poisoned him before a bodyguard managed to take him down.

"Hey, that Mr. Cargo guy was the President, right? Man...I thought i could believe in him back then. I had no idea he was such a wuss!"

"No. He's not." Nagase finally chimed in.

"Come to think about it, Edge, you're right."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Orders like this could have only come straight down from POTOF," I explained, lining up a pair of T-72s in my LITENING screen. "Took 'em an assassination attempt before this government finally decided on something."

The declaration was actually signed by **V**POTOF, but Harling had given him explicit authorization to rule in his stead - and Council was quite happy to oblige.

And hell, I was thankful he'd done the right thing. I was tired of being left to stew in their bureaucratic limbo.

"Blaze..." Edge muttered in concern. "I can only hope you decide to do the right thing too."

"S'what I'm doing now, Edge- Heads up. We got Floggers." I replied, craning my head to face a formation of attacker aircraft flying low over the hills through the HMD. I grinned genuinely as I pitched around to face them.

I'd rarely felt better than I did at that time, for more than just a few moments. I was finally going to get justice for Shadow, for Saint Hewlett, for everyone I couldn't save. I would make my mom proud and come back home to Las Violas respected for something that wasn't related to narcotics or songs about violence and prostitutes.

And I'd come home happier knowing I wasn't the only one to do so.

"Did you know? My older brother Josef's down there." Grimm suddenly remarked.

"What? You should've told me that earlier, you moron! Where is he?"

"Charlie Company, I think. I don't know, they all look the same."

"Let's make him proud by keeping his ass alive," I added. "Then that'll make three of us at least. Grimm, let's take out those attackers."

Given the last few times I'd felt so good, I probably should have expected them to come to an end so quickly already.

* * *

_**To Be**** Continued...**_

_Author's Note: And there you go. The invasion begins, and so does Albert's journalistic quest to get to the bottom of this mysterious PMC thing. Sorry it took so long and I'm sorry I continue to suck at and/or rip off Battlefield's military terminology._

_A/N 2: I'm still running that find the Homestuck-reference-get-a-cameo thing._


	16. Tooth For A Tooth

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**In A Blaze of Glory (Soldier)**  
**Chapter 6: Tooth for Tooth**

_"If you are going to do good, do good all your life. If you are going to do evil, do evil all your life." - Joseph Kony_

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**2 November 2010**  
**Sand Island AFB, Osea**

"Hey Genette, you heading home already?"

Blaze's voice almost caught me off guard when I left the Crew Quarters with a filled backpack in tow, to find him and Chopper suited up and heading out as well.

"Uh...not quite, guys. I'm going to Yuktobania, apparently," I replied shyly.

Osea's first amphibious landing operation in decades had been a rousing success thanks in no small part to the Wardogs. With the front already advancing swiftly away from the first beachhead, the new command center had opened its doors for a statement and press conference for Osean and a few international news reporters.

And having volunteered, the first e-mail I got the previous evening was an order to get over there and take part.

"Hey, that's where we're headed! You want a ride?" Chopper laughed.

"Ugh...no thanks."

My stomach grumbled almost in reflex as I immediately recalled my last plane ride. I already hoped that whoever was flying the chartered transport that would bring me there wouldn't try any dangerous maneuvers even if we were fired on.

I was already wearing the "complimentary" kevlar and helmet the Air Force provided me when I first arrived more than a month ago to interview the still-missing Captain Bartlett, and my journalistic bravado had almost done a good job at suppressing that part of my conscience that begged me to return or face the wrath of my inexperience.

"Little Albert's gonna be a front line reporter now, eh?" Blaze laughed, nudging my shoulder with his elbow. "Shit, lemme see if I can rustle you up a parachute to go with that gear."

"Hey guys, any chance you'll take me along?" Another familiar face joined us on the way to Hangar C.

"Holy fuck Shadow, you got out?" Blaze exclaimed, before the two embraced briefly. "Fuck, looks like it wasn't all for shit now."

Damien 'Shadow' Madison, one of the few surviving nuggets from the Scinfaxi battle, looked almost manically cheery that day, though there was something in his eyes that betrayed a sense of worry.

"Yeah, and they reassigned me. Check it out."

He then turned his shoulder to show a new patch sewed onto his sleeve, just above the Wardog patch. The larger black-and-red patch appeared to show a snake with its jaw wide open lunging at the viewer. The three of us took a look at it, but it didn't strike any of us as familiar.

"413th Special Fighter Squadron...Venom? Never heard of 'em."

"Me neither, until I got my new assignment papers. They had the other survivors transferred back to reserve, so we'll be the ones keeping Sand Island safe while you guys are gone."

Blaze put his hands on his hips. "Well, that's a relief," he replied with his now-familiar razor smirk. "I take it you're not the leader."

"No, I'll take you to meet them now if you're not in a hurry."

"Sure, we still got a couple of minutes," Chopper shrugged, and the three of us followed him to Hangar C.

Unlike its still-sealed neighbor, Hangar C's doors had been wide open since the start of the war. After Grimm took Captain Bartlett's old craft, it remained empty until yesterday. But even I was surprised at what the OADF had filled it up with.

Six brand-new F-22 Raptors were lined up in the hangar, three to either side. By the look of how busy the flight crews were in re-arming and refueling them, they appeared to have only gotten here this morning. But the appearance of such modern aircraft on the island clearly had Blaze frowning and clenching his fist in envy.

"What the fuck man, you hit your head and they give you a fucking Raptor?" were the first words out of his mouth.

"Wasn't my choice!" Shadow pleaded, genuinely sounding like it was all a misunderstanding. "I'm still going through the manual on that thing!"

"So who the fuck is teaching you?" Blaze continued, crossing his arms.

Shadow pointed to a man in a flight-suit standing next to the plane numbered 401 like he was blaming someone else for a spilled drink. "There. That's Vinny Ramirez, our squad leader-"

"Wait a minute. Vincent "Scorpion" Ramirez?" came Chopper's sudden interruption.

The name got Chopper's attention a lot more than it did mine as he suddenly glanced at a tall, slender yet firmly-built man with slicked-black hair near one of the F-22s. Obviously there was something famous or notorious about Ramirez that caused Chopper to react almost like a movie star's fan.

"...who's Vinny?" Blaze and I suddenly asked in unison.

Shadow put a finger to his mouth in thought. "He was one of Osea's top aces from the '95 war that didn't join the anarchists. Been in a reserve squadron since."

"Yeah, and a real cocky bastard according to everyone that flew with him, too," Chopper replied. "Come on, Blaze, even you should've heard of him."

"I heard his name a couple times but I figured he was already out to pasture since we're now the Air-fucking Defense Force." Blaze sighed, staring back at the F-22s.

"Well yeah, he's really stuck-up. Treats me like a runt, too," Shadow bemoaned. "Not like you guys."

"Dude, you only flew that one time and hit your head on the way down." Blaze remarked. "You _deserve_ that."

"I guess. Then again I'm still kinda green compared to my new squadmates anyway."

Damien waved out an arm to a group of four pilots: eerily enough, three men and a woman conversing near one of the planes on the other side. Two of the men were blonde, and one of them with the wilder hair wore what appeared to be a pair of aviator sunglasses. The other two had black hair. Unlike Damien though, each of them wore a second, smaller squadron patch under the black Venom one, and no two were alike.

"Wait, is that...Donald Stryker?" Chopper suddenly pointed at the one with the glasses.

"Yeah. And...Ross Landry, Jacob Englebert, and...uh...Chase Callender." Damien continued to recite. "Dee-Jay, Martini, Ecto, and Husky."

"No freaking way, they're all your squadmates?" Chopper seemed almost as aghast as Blaze became more confused.

"What is this, the fucking Justice League?" Blaze then asked with a raised eyebrow. "The fuck are these guys?"

"Actually, they were up-and-coming aces from their respective squadrons during the old war too," Damien continued, sounding almost like an elementary school student reciting poetry verse. "They stuck around after the downsizing, so I guess I'll be learning from the best at least though."

"Man, you're lucky," Chopper added, "What I wouldn't give to fly with those guys."

"Yeah, well..." came a deep yet snarky voice from one side. "A squadron's only as strong as their _weakest_ pilot."

Blaze suppressed a chuckle at the thought, but Scorpion's comment seemed to offend Chopper as the squadron leader approached us, helmet in hand. The word 'weakest' also caused Shadow to recoil in humiliation.

"Oh! ...Captain, these are-" Shadow began.

"Osea's new heroes?" Scorpion concluded, like Shadow wasn't even there. "And their personal paparazzo."

"That's us. You must be Scorpion?" Blaze began, extending his hand. Scorpion confidently completed his handshake.

"Call me Vince," he replied. "I guess I gotta call you Ricky, eh? Heard you're already quite the BAMF."

"'Blaze' is good enough. Anyway welcome to Sand Island, stick around a couple months and you'll get your own camera junkie too." Blaze added, finally letting his chuckle out. "Maybe you'll get a fully-licensed Vinewood stalker instead of this tabloid clown."

Now I was starting to feel offended, but in a more embarrassed way.

"Yeah, well, if _Damey_ here doesn't get us killed first," Scorpion replied, smirking even more sharply than Blaze could as he tossed a side glance and a dismissive thumb point at Shadow.

"Hey man, leave the kid alone." Chopper then said as he glared into Scorpion's eyes, clearly fed up with what Blaze and Scorpion were spewing as he stepped forward to confront the rival squad leader.

"Looks like somebody can't take a joke," Scorpion scowled.

"Yeah, dude, lighten the fuck up." Blaze added, before positioning himself between Chopper and Scorpion in case of a fight. He then turned to Scorpion and put one hand up to wave it off. "Anyway, Scorpio my man, I got a sortie to attend to and Albert here has a flight to catch."

"No prob, kid. Hey, come talk to me when you wanna trade up," he added as Blaze began to shepherd us out of the hangar toward the open sunlight.

"I will when I stop feeling bad about leaving them with two rookies, okay?" Blaze quipped as he left, before waving and smiling almost sadistically at Shadow. "Later, Damey!"

Edge and Grimm were already waiting outside for us, and both of them looked like they'd heard our little squabble. The first thing I did, however, was check my phone for the time. My own 'flight' to Yuktobania was about to start boarding any moment now, but I couldn't board without leaving one matter unsettled here.

"For the love of...Blaze, I told you we're not a tabloid." I huffed.

"It's just a little joking between buddies," Blaze muttered. "Shit, if you really wanna get offended go interview the Navy. Those pissy sailors probably won't even let you publish that shit."

"I'm just glad that's over..." Chopper huffed, taking another look back into the hangar before clasping his hands behind his head and arching back a little. "Guess it's not worth it to wanna fly with 'em after all."

"I told you, lighten up," Blaze replied, putting one hand on Chopper's shoulder. "Look at it this way, 'least they're playing second fiddle to us."

Chopper then brushed Blaze's hand away. "Tell that to your _new buddy_ Scorpion."

"Guys!" Grimm suddenly exclaimed as he stepped forward, "Can we just...leave this for later or something?"

His voice faltered after his initial exclamation, but unlike Shadow he didn't seem to lose his posture. And unlike Shadow and Scorpion, he wasn't left alone.

"Grimm's right," Edge said, as she also stepped toward them to help keep Grimm from losing his confidence. "All their star power means nothing if they only think of themselves."

She briefly glared at Blaze as if to direct those last few words at him, then glanced over at Scorpion and Shadow's other squadmates, as they welcomed their squad leader into the chat. She seemed to frown a little, and my inner macho instinct guessed it was because she'd gotten a look at Chase Callender. For a female fighter pilot, Chase's figure seemed to be almost too curvaceous for her flight suit.

"You know what? Fine." Chopper put his hands in the air disarmingly. "Let's go show Mister Scorpio that we can walk our talk too."

"Finally, buddy, something we agree on," Blaze sighed, before turning to me. "Ain't you got a flight to catch?"

Unfortunately, I'd also gotten distracted with Chase's figure to notice I was running late. Blaze's remark snapped me out of that little trance, and I blushed a little for having been caught out.

"Yeah, sure. I'll see you guys later," I replied, forcing a little smile as I quickly waved and turned toward the twin-rotored CH-47 Chinook waiting for me at the far end of the tarmac.

I took one last look into Hangar C before I started walking away though. I could barely see Ramirez slapping Shadow over the head for something, and two of his other squadmates appearing to derive some kind of entertainment from it. Again, Blaze snapped me out of that trance.

"Sure you don't need an escort?" Blaze called out, as the four of them had already started toward their own planes across the tarmac. Their F-16s were already parked outside and the refueling crews were already removing the nozzles from the tanks.

"Nah, I'll be more worried about you guys not being here when I return." I shouted back.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about us fucking up!" were the last things I heard before the ambient noise of jet engines drowned them out. I broke into a jog toward my own transport, and I could already noticed the ramp down and the flight crew frantically waving their arms as if to get me to run faster.

My worries, as it happened, turned out to be pretty well-founded.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**Osean Federation Courthouse**  
**Oured, CD**

**4 November 2011  
1032 hrs OET**

Suffice it to say, we fucked up.

As a racial minority growing up in the L-V-O, the one stereotype that definitely held true was that constant lookout for hormonal police officers and racist neighborhood watchmen looking to take out their frustrations on helpless civilians with beatdowns and planted drugs. Years of riots didn't discourage them. Instead it only resulted in less police funding, which meant more pigs trying to engorge on a smaller trough.

Of course, that was mostly also the governors' fault.

However this war still wasn't short of any unpleasant surprises, or unpleasant first times.

So I never thought the first time I would ever be summoned to court as the defendant was for the charge of crimes against humanity.

Sure was a step up from jaywalking tickets.

The previous 16 hours of my still-short active duty career were spent in transit to this very room, most of it on a transport plane to Redford National. Then were shuttled downtown and locked in this depressingly well-lit room reserved for juries deliberating the fate of some sex offender who'd been busted streaking.

Hell, the fact that they brought us straight to the Capitol instead of some regional hall of military justice meant that we'd fucked up in a manner bad enough to have severely compromised national security.

I could practically smell the sweat soaking through my dress uniform as the four of us waited in what was supposed to be the jury deliberation room for our respective turns on the stand. One by one my squadmates got called in. They left afraid and a bit flustered, returning frustrated after what felt like hours.

Edge got called in first, then Grimm, then Chopper. And if their increasing frustration was any sign, I didn't want to know what would happened when I got my turn on the hot seat.

"Damn, am I glad that's over," Chopper began as he stepped in, stretching his arms out.

"Lemme guess, they didn't buy the 8492nd thing either, right?" I groaned.

"Hell no!" Chopper huffed, before taking a seat beside me. "They acted like we were hallucinating again!"

"It's just not right. Committing an atrocity like that will only drag this out further..." Edge added as she stared out the window at the cityscape, now deep in her contemplation. "...but why blame it on us?"

Right then and there the last place I wanted to be was between my squadmates and what were probably the Joint Fucking Chiefs of Staff. And that was because right then and there I could feel the blame of an entire fucking nation resting on my shoulders, tribunal secrecy be damned.

"...freaking fine already!" I grumbled, before standing up and leaning forward, my arms shakily propping the rest of my upper body on the table. "I shouldn't have wanted to fuck 'em up so badly? Dammit, I'm sorry..."

Even I knew I probably didn't mean it. But goddamn did my chest feel clear.

"Look..." Grimm then spoke up, leaning toward me from his seat, "Blaze...did you _really_ want them to die?"

"Ye- no- I just, I-" I slumped back into my seat. "Fuck...now I don't..."

The next thing I felt was a slightly burly arm around my shoulders. "Ricky...dude, even you couldn't have done it if you wanted to. I'd have shot you down first."

I laughed, just barely stifling back tears. "Yeah...thanks, I guess..."

"Lieutenant Ricardo Villa?"

At the sound of that almost monotone voice I slowly turned to find one of the MPs in the doorway. I knew right then and there that my time had come.

"Yeah, I'm coming." I sounded like a freaking zombie demon from outer space.

"Good luck out there..." Edge murmured.

"By the way...didn't Hamilton say he'd get over here to help us?" Grimm then asked.

"Yeah, but he's taking the long way over," Chopper replied, before looking at his watch. "I thought an _adjutant base commander _like him would at least fly business or something."

"Ah well, see you in the brig." I sighed.

I took a deep breath and faced the door.

Then the alarm went off as soon as I took my first step toward it, like I stepped on the wrong tile in some secret installation. The one thing I noticed that told me that I wasn't entirely screwed was the fact that the MP also looked like he took the wrong step too.

The second thing I noticed was the door opening to reveal a scruffy-looking Brigadier General of the Air Defense Force, the look he gave us giving me the suspicion that he was one of the judges.

"All right, Wardog, we've got an emergency here."

I sat down reflexively.

"Our armies are bogged down with the Yuktobanian invasion, so we're short on operational aircraft." The colonel then put his hand to his chin out of frustration. "Unfortunately, as a result we're going to have to request that you flying aces take off for us."

"Take off for...what?"

"That depends. Which mission would you like to take on?"

"Wait a minute," Chopper exclaimed, "You said 'which.'"

"That's right, the capital's got more than one attack to deal with right now."

"...oh, fuck." I staggered back into my seat. "How bad is it?"

"The DCC alerted us to a chemical weapons attack in Bana City right before we were gonna call you up. The only way to neutralize it en masse at this point is by aerial application."

"Okay, that's pretty bad." I groaned, slumping a bit.

"Then just as we were about to sound the alarm, Yuke aircraft showed up on radar in Gurnard headed straight for Apito International during peak travel hours."

"That's...very...very bad." I was almost hunched over like a mad scientist's assistant.

A sneaky smile crept across the Brigadier General's face. "Gettin' squeamish, eh? Well then, how 'bout we use this to decide?" he asked, as he pulled out a coin from his uniform's inner pocket. "Call it."

"Are you kidding me? A coin toss?" Chopper exclaimed, suddenly standing up from his seat.

"We don't have a choice, Chopper," Edge lamented. "It's as bad when they do it as when our side does."

"Okay then..." I concurred. "Heads, we shoot down some more Yukes. Just so you don't make us fall guys for this bullshit."

The Brigadier General then arched his eyebrows and tilted his head in agreement. "Fair enough. Lieutenant Villa, I'll see you tomorrow morning if you succeed."

At the time I didn't know who was really to blame for what got us here in the first place, but I damn well hoped I could prove that we hadn't been too consumed by unfathomable bloodlust to do our jobs right. And I hoped that I could prove that by doing what the hell I proved I did best over the past month.

In short, as the Brigadier General flicked that tiny slab of cupro-nickel alloy toward the ceiling, I hoped for heads.

* * *

**3000 feet above Bana City, SL  
****Three Hours Later**

_"I can't believe we had to flip a goddamn coin for this mission! This isn't funny, man!"_

"This is what we're reduced to, buddy...if it means we can show that FFIC we're not fucking war criminals."

Unlike the movie cliche, I'd already accepted the fact that clearing our names was going to be a pretty tough thing to do. Hell, it was a necessity growing up in a world where being on the wrong side of the street at the wrong time could cost you the rest of your life. Or where one frisky night out could undo a lifetime of community service.

It didn't even have to be your goddamn fault.

_"Capital to Wardog. You'll have to fly at cherubs to deploy the neutralizer. Estimate two-seconds should be more than plenty to allow DCC to start cleanup. Start spraying before your nose hits the gas."_

_"Roger. Gee, thanks for the step-by-step instruction there."_

That afternoon the Yukes decided to pull off an opera house rescue, only using the entire city as the goddamn opera house. Before long an entire college town was doused in piss-yellow smoke, and it was going to stick around unless someone, that is, _we_ could do a damn thing about it.

_"Captain Davenport, we've heard from the front lines that you like to shoot your mouth off on the radio."_

"...uh, Davenport is too busy carrying out his mission to answer you at this time, sir."

"At least your sidekick finds it funny." I added, hearing what appeared to be muffled chuckling over the radio.

The DCC managed to get to one of the nerve gas devices before it detonated and identify the compound they used. Then while we were commuting to Mordecai AFB just outside the capital, they figured out what we might have in our inventory that could somehow counter it.

So that left it to us or rather, the folks at Mordecai to decide how we were going to get it there in large amounts in a few hours.

As luck would have it, the OADF had been refurbishing the few OV-10 Broncos we had left in our stock to give to the Aurelians or the F.G.I. for whatever COIN antics their leaders needed to pull off that month. A pair of glorified giant spray cans on the wings contained enough neutralizer to gas whatever the Yukes hadn't yet (or half those damn college Reds, as the man explaining all of it to us quipped).

Finally, each of us got paired with an observer to help us point the plane in the right direction and make sure we didn't shear our wingtips off on the buildings.

_"Blaze, our radars won't be able to help us target the gas."_

"Copy that, that's what we got our sidekicks for. Break formation and prioritize the ones closest to you."

"Okay, Lieutenant Villa," my own 'sidekick' began. "Bring 'er down over the waterfront. Shit...that's a lot of smoke."

Coming out of a brand new F-16, I was surprised that the old Bronco didn't lurch like it had rusted through as I brought it down over the Bana City waterfront. Then again, it probably only weighed half as much as my old Falcon, and was only carrying two glorified spray cans on its wings along with 4 wing-mounted M-60s. For "self defense," as it were.

To find a word, the plumes of piss-yellow smoke had gone flaccid, leaving what appeared to be a very low-hanging fog over the affected areas, including the waterfront. Apart from some of the rides at the local amusement park, I didn't have to worry too much about becoming a terrorist martyr myself.

"Ready aerosol," my sidekick continued, completely from protocol. "...now!"

A flick of the button that would've normally dropped some ordnance on an insurgent's hammock instead resulted in a low hissing sound. I'd been advised that was a good thing, as it meant the aerosol neutralizer was deploying as expected.

I snickered a little as I also wondered how this "aerial application" could have been applied en masse to the type of folks that would've been filling the squares during politically charged times like these.

"Good spray on waterfront, Capital," my sidekick confirmed.

"Capital to Wardog 1, good spray. Clearing DCC to move into the waterfront."

"One down, the rest of the damn city to go."

"Just keep cool," my sidekick continued. "There's another one, 11 o'clock. Frontier Plaza, 1 mile."

I shuddered at the sight of the next cloud, not because it was larger than the last but because they just had to deploy it between a row of buildings that fronted the Morris River.

"Okay, ease up on the throttle a little, and nudge it left on my mark...now." My sidekick, on the other hand, was probably a member of the Blue Angels or both, because he didn't seem to be bothered by it.

"Whoooa-ly crap!" Grimm's exclamation broke my concentration, and I almost pulled away from the route as if it was me about to crash into a building.

"Archer? What the hell happened?"

"Hernandez to Blaze," came the voice of Archer's almost-as-surprised observer. "Just a little low-altitude scare. We got it under control here."

"You'd better. I'm not having a martyr on my conscience today," I groaned, before squinting at the oncoming yellow fog and readying the trigger.

"Now!" called my observer.

I was half-expecting the fog to suddenly rear up and try to swallow me like a million-zollar CGI effect, but the spray was deployed as expected and two seconds later I'd saved a broad swath of cement and trendy coffee and tea shops for the next day's protests.

"Right..." the observer added, "Next nearest one is over SLU, just across the river."

Turning the Bronco to face halfway toward the direction whence we came, the city apparently looked a little safer for the hippies to hug their trees, as there were now multiple white clouds staining the atmosphere where once there were piss-yellow ones. Bodily fluid references notwithstanding, I thought we were doing a pretty good job until my observer got back to me.

"Blaze, incoming from Capital."

"Yeah, what now?" I muttered.

"Capital to Wardog. BCPD have spotted the terrorists' getaway truck and they need assistance. Apparently all of their available helicopters are still monitoring the evac and they can't get 'em near the gas clouds."

"Well that's convenient..." I muttered, as I almost leisurely pitched the plane north toward the next gas cloud.

"They just need at least one of you to help keep an eye on them."

I turned to face my observer. "Well, what do you think?"

"Lived here for 20 years and went to Santo Lorenzo U," he replied solemnly. "I'm not gonna let those bastards get away with gassing my alma mater. I'll help you find 'em."

"All right then," I replied, before activating the receiver. "Blaze to Capital, we can tango."

"Capital to 1, good copy. Patching you through to BCPD Central now."

"This is BCPD Central Dispatch to Air Defense Force. We are currently unable to provide air support for officers on a Code 3 chase involving suspected terrorist elements. Requesting immediate top cover, over."

My mouth stretched upward into a grin when the thought occurred to me that for once in my life I'd be the one in the ghetto bird keeping an eye out for the thugs and gangstas.

"Affirmative Dispatch, let's do this."

"10-4 ADF. Patrol members be advised, 10-89 suspect vehicle has been sighted southbound on SR-22 passing Lennox Avenue exit."

"2-Charlie-11 here, can you give me more details on that call?"

"Suspects are in a white container truck."

"Copy dispatch, I see 'em about to hit Grissom interchange, Code 3 chase."

"State 22 and Grissom...let's see, that's Northeast, 2 miles." my sidekick then added, to which I almost over-eagerly banked the old Bronco in that direction and eased into the throttle.

It was only then that I actually started getting frustrated with not piloting an actual jet, as the OV-10 had only been built for COIN speeds. That was good for circling around and monitoring some pick-up trucks loaded with jihadjis in the mountains of Clavistani buttfuck nowhere, but not for catching up to them quickly.

That's what I apparently had my observer for.

"Okay, they haven't said they've left the highway yet so they'll be about a mile down by the time we get there. Ease right a little."

Without any clouds of vaporized piss left to extinguish in front of me, time began to stretch further than the distance I had to cover to reach the damn truck. The only thing I could do was chill out to the radio, though the first transmission reminded me that I wasn't exactly getting the best of the Pac-Coast rap scene over the airwaves.

"Hey Banner, isn't today your daughter's birthday?"

"3-Bravo-7 be advised, redirect all non-essential calls to Tac 3."

"Well I can't just sit around and do nothing, Jones! Let's do this. Switching channels now."

"Gotta be one unlucky girl to have a birthday on the same day of a terrorist attack..." I muttered to myself. At least she'd have a story to tell about her dad being one of the few cops that found something else to do between harassing minorities on a daily basis.

In broad daylight, the tradeoff to being able to spot the buildings easier was not being able to see where the damn cop blinkers were. Fortunately for me, I had my observer to help.

"There it is!" my sidekick exclaimed as we caught our first glimpse of the culprits. "Shit, look at all the chasers."

"Wardog 1 to central, got eyes on the tangos, over," I replied, dialing the throttle down.

"Affirmative Wardog, you do not have permission to fire on the truck."

"Oh come on!" Chopper whined, "Not even just a little?" Having tuned into our frequency meant he could at least be entertained by our chaos.

"Negative. We don't know what they still have in there."

I didn't even have to remember protocol or the movie cliche to wonder what they still 'had in there.' Contrary to the oxymoron, I was actually expecting them to pull some kind of surprise out of their sleeve.

"Only a great hatred could drive them to do something like this," Edge bemoaned.

I would've sliced and diced that comment had I not known for once that she was actually right.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea  
Crew Quarters**

**5 local minutes earlier**

The war was raging hundreds if not thousands of miles away, but I was frantically pacing about my quarters like the Yuktobanians would try yet another attack with the Wardogs out of the way, trying to piece together the new info I'd brought back from my trip.

The room I shared with Chopper had itself become a bit of a command room if one could call a fairly-outdated laptop switched onto live streaming with my smartphone plugged into the side a "command room."

Still, I had to give the base credit for having a fairly strong connection though, as I was able to get a view of both scenes of chaos ravaging New Nordland in almost-real-time. I still had to mute one or the other so I could pay better attention though.

KPAR, one of the OBC's affiliates, was broadcasting live from the ground and clearly at a distance as fighters had been scrambled to take on a massive squadron of Yuktobanian aircraft that had appeared over Apito International Airport. Meanwhile, KBNC was taking part in a live police pursuit for terrorists that had set off dirty bombs across Bana City.

_"We now have word that the Air Defense Force will be taking over pursuit from the police due to a lack of available helicopters."_

But it wasn't these attacks I was worried about as much as what caused them.

The word had been going around the base that the Wardogs had been called to some kind of military commission in Oured after their last mission a precursor to a potential court martial.

I missed their return, having only gotten back yesterday evening for time advancing quicker heading eastward, and I already knew it had to do something with what got the press conference called off.

_"Civilian flights are being diverted north to Elliott Fulton Airport in Flounder, and the AAF advises that loved ones check the EFA website or contact their airline's representatives for arrival times."_

The social networks and official Yuktobanian sources monitoring the 'defense of the Motherland' were abuzz with allegations that a squadron of fighter planes had bombed a civilian target, inflicting heavy casualties.

_"Hold on, it looks like the display's lit up with what appear to be explosions coming from the runway of the airport."_

That the collective social mass were probably quicker at piecing a puzzle together (reliability be damned) than I could wasn't what got me tense though.

The one thing that both the "warmongers" and "peaceniks" on both sides of the ocean could agree on was that the planes that did it belonged to the Osean Air Defense Force. What they couldn't agree upon was which squadron it was and the Wardogs were one of the likely candidates for being on the front line.

_"We're currently over State Route 22 where units of the Stockdale County Sheriff have also been called in to aid in the pursuit. They are currently keeping their distance as the terrorist suspects have opened fire on them."_

And that seemed to make a lot of sense, even as the defense forums were edging them out of suspicion through their relatively expert analysis of grainy video footage smuggled out through Yuktobanian internet blocks. The planes responsible were F-15s, while Wardog flew F-16s.

"...unconfirmed reports of armored combat vehicles on the runway of Apito International. We are now hearing what sound like large explosions, flashes of light along the runway-"

Despite it all, this was still a war where both sides demonstrated their ability to raise the ante. The Yukes were no doubt raising the ante with these attacks in response to Osea raising the stakes through their destruction of the facility.

"BCPD SWAT has stopped the truck over the Marvin Bridge and...What's that beepi- holy crap!"

And what got me worried the most is that at least one of the Wardogs seemed to want it to happen. Maybe he didn't want it to, deep down. But if this spiral of raised stakes continued along its path, there was no telling where it would lead.

The sudden burst of activity from KBNC's feed gave me an idea though, and it filled me with dread.

"That's a freaking missile coming at us! Turn it! Turn it! God-"

By the time my gaze had flicked over to the other side of the screen, KBNC's feed went completely dead.

"Marcus? Marcus? Uh...we are apparently suffering technical difficulties with the live broadcast from over Santo Lorenzo U."

Perhaps there was some kind of grim solace to be found in the fact that my brief exposure to the Weazel News feed of both crises did not reveal Jonas Stromberg stoking the flames on either.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**500 feet over the Bellamy River  
Bana City, SL**

"5-7 to units on that Code 3, we got a roadblock ahead of your position, bring 'em in."

The past few minutes I'd spent in the front seat of the OV-10 were the closest thing to R&R I'd had in the last three days. I barely noticed the stress of the impending tribunal hanging over my head amidst my new role as a ghetto bird.

"Suspect is slowing down, we got 'em."

This despite the fact that we were literally on our own as every available strike fighter in New Nordland had been scrambled to take care of an entire Yuke armored battalion that had manifested itself on Apito International's runway.

"Central Dispatch to Capital, DCC has cleared hazard teams east of Bellamy River."

Over here, where things were relatively calmer, my teammates had done a pretty bang-up job of limiting the gas dispersals. It was actually almost relieving to hear Grimm's own sidekick calming him down by helping him imagine some kind of flashing trail marking where to fly and when to activate the "aerial application."

But this wasn't a video game. And ultimately, the fewer people died that day, the less that the tribunal would make it weigh down on my conscience.

"Good copy, Central Dispatch. Got the all-clear from DCC over west bank area too. Nice job Wardogs, you've saved the city."

After enough circling to rival a theme park roller coaster, the cops finally managed to corner the perps over the city's famous Marvin Bridge. Obviously, these cornered animals would not go down without a fight, but from up here we still didn't have permission to give them a good strafing.

"10-80, 10-80, airborne explosion reported over Marvin Bridge."

"Shit, what the hell happened?"

"Looks like they shot down a news helicopter!" Capital came back, as I spotted the contrails of the missile that blew it up dissipating across my line of sight. "The missile came from up the river!"

"My radar's lighting up like a Christmas tree!" my sidekick shouted, as I pulled the plane to face up-river. "Looks like helos!" My HMD lit up with a single enemy aircraft an Mi-8 Hip plodding its merry way toward the bridge. The Yukes churned out the old 8 like toys, but apart from the occasional anti-tank missile, they were hardly a threat against a Pac-Coast SWAT team armed to raid a cartel boss' mansion.

"The hell you mean lots of helos, all I got is a Hi- oh."

The sudden appearance of a flock of incoming Hinds and the buzzing of the missile lock finally snapped me out of my entertained trance. At the distances I'd spotted them, they looked almost like wasps that could launch their stingers.

"Report to command! Yuke helicopters have breached our airspace! Repeat, multiple attack helicopters in our airspace!"

"I'll take care of countermeasures, you just keep those missiles off our asses!" my sidekick added, as I pulled my Bronco up and to the side. "How the hell'd they get so far inland!"

"Fuck if I know, but we're not gonna let them rescue their comrades!" I replied, pulling the Bronco around some of the skyscrapers dotting the Bellamy's west bank.

"Central to Capital, our officers are not equipped for surface-to-air combat. Requesting immediate top cover for units ASAP!"

"This is Capital. Wardog, you are clear to engage the helicopters."

"That's what I've been waiting for!" Chopper shouted.

"Right on, buddy. Time to show the top brass our powers of precision," I added, edging the throttle up until I ended up behind the pack. "Pick 'em off one by one, but stay together."

I hung a hard right past the last skyscraper in the block and came out to catch a Hind literally bringing up the rear.

At that moment I pulled the hardpoint trigger out of memory, then proceeded to utter a combination of several expletives at once as I realized that I actually fired the aerosol dispensers.

That didn't stop my Bronco from shorting out the tail rotor of a Hind the hard way with a burst of M60 machinegun fire.

"Guess I should've told you where the machine guns were, Blaze. Sorry," my sidekick added. "I'll fire 'em for you, just point away."

"Heh. Sure- Fuck." The appearance of a swatter got the swarm's attention, and soon I had another missile lock. "You got the flares back there too!" I shouted as I nudged the plane downward among the strip malls and coffee shops.

"I'm on it!" my sidekick shouted as I eyed my radar.

My squadmates had dove headlong into the fray and I wasn't the only one trying to pull evasive maneuvers. As soon as the missile lock warning went off with the dull ka-chunk of a deployed countermeasure, I swung the Bronco up and around what looked like some kind of clock tower to bring the line of lights back into my HMD.

Bana City's finest hovered around my ten o'clock, and I had as much time as it would take for the Red Air Force's pack of Hinds to save their asses. Our planes kept most of them busy, leaving the front chargers mostly to myself. Of course, this wasn't the ocean. It'd be harder to apply our newfound experience at shooting down combat helicopters here.

"Damn these guys are squirrely!" Chopper shouted, his craft probably the friendly one looping upward out of the pack to avoid a missile lock. "If it weren't for these damn buildings..."

That and it would be easier for four fighters to take out a fleet of attack helicopters than three.

"I'm coming!" I replied, pushing full power into the OV-10's turboprops and leveling out along the river heading north and right into the path of several of the helicopters. "Let's round 'em up and bring 'em home. You gonna spot me?"

"I see ya, kid!" came the reply as Chopper looped back down into the swarm, "I think I can get the jump on 'em!"

"You're heading right into their line of fire, Blaze!" Grimm called out.

"This is Edge, I've got you at my one o'clock and I'm gonna follow you in. You're not gonna go in there alone."

As frenzied sprays of machine gun fire began to whiz past my incoming aircraft, my mind blanked out for a split-second in realizing Edge's double meaning.

And I smiled. Not as sadistically as I liked, but damned more genuine than I had in a while.

We didn't have anything close to what us Las Viola os callled 'rep' anymore. We flew shit aircraft against an equally- or better-equipped horde that seemed to be one step ahead of us. And outside of the combat zone I seemed to be doing everything in my power to drive us apart.

But goddamn if we weren't in this together. Whether we wanted to or not. For better or for worse.

And if that meant going down together, I preferred to go down in flames than into jail.

"Jesus, you tryin'a kill us!" my sidekick began to plead.

"Yeah, I guess I am," I huffed. "You wanna live, fire like there's no tomorrow anyway."

"I got eyes on the pack from below," Grimm replied. "Hernandez is about ready to do it."

The next twenty seconds felt like crossing into a portal to some old war movie as four streams of M-60 bullets speared several Yuke helicopters like fish in a goddamn barrel. The sheer adrenalin rush of the moment numbed my conscience realizing that neither the Bronco nor the Hinds fired tracer rounds. And that meant a single unlucky shot could end my quest for justice before my brain could notice it had been spread across my sidekick's visor.

Of course, my brain was still worrying that it wouldn't notice being spread across my sidekick's visor even after we'd skewered right through the pack of Hinds. All of a sudden the radar looked a lot more clear and more noticeably, everything seemed a lot more...quiet.

"Hot diggety god damn, guys!" Chopper cheered, dispelling the notion that I'd indeed been killed and sent to some Elysian sky where all was quiet.

"Blaze, you're hit!" Edge suddenly added, also dispelling the notion that everything okay.

I gazed out my starboard side to find tiny trails of black smoke from where a few lucky shells embedded themselves in the wing.

The sight of smoke was, in retrospect, probably a lot better than getting my brain spread across my sidekick's visor.

"That's it? Pfff."

"Holy hell, we made it..." my sidekick sighed. "Looks like we can still make it back to base after this."

"It'll buff out. We've sent worse things to the Aurelians."

"More like the Grasyans," my sidekick countered, "Bad enough they don't have jets right no-"

Any contemplation and associated snickering that might have followed the idea that my smoking heap of junk was definitely the best aircraft the Air Force of the Fort Grace Islands was interrupted by a transmission from Capital.

"Nice job guys, only one attack helicopter left."

"Well dick," I replied, jamming the joystick to port and pulling the Bronco in a wide-arc to catch the fleeing Yuke bird.

"Blaze, your plane!" Edge pleaded as I nudged the Bronco up to full power.

"I'll be fine. Ten of those fuckers only dinged me, what's one more?" I replied, swinging the Bronco back above the Bellamy and gunning it toward the single attacker blip on my HMD.

The little Hip was also highlighted, but with most of its buddies floating down the Bellamy the SWAT teams would probably give it hell.

"Turn and face me, you fucking commie fuck," I snarled, as my plane began to wobble from the extra stress. I already had the Hind lining up in my HMD. "Hope you know how to fucking swim."

"Blaze, you want us to smash into him?" my observer pleaded. "Slow it down!"

"I won't."

In hindsight pun half-intended perhaps I was a little too impatient when it came for waiting for them to face me. The moment their cockpit glinted in the sunlight, my sidekick unleashed four streams of M-60 machine gun fire at the helicopter. I wasn't sure which part of their helicopter got hit first, but the whole damn thing went down in a corkscrew of smoke.

"Helicopter destroyed, Wardog 1," Capital confirmed. "BCPD choppers are moving in and their getaway ride's turning tail and bugging out. SWAT's kept the LZ a little too hot for them."

"Good copy, Capital. Wardog, that's mission accomplished."

I turned away from the river and eased up as I approached the bridge. My HMD marked a single Mi-8 turning tail and scurrying away from the surrounding flock of BCPD ghetto birds with its tail rotor practically between its skids. Had I not known they were the enemy, I would've almost thought it was a kid that some bullies let run away after they had their way with him.

"That's right, you Red fucks. Thought you'd gotten rid of us with your little frameup?" I muttered to myself, taking one hand off the flight stick to give the truck and its surrendering occupants a little homegrown 'good luck gesture.'

The moment my middle fingertip aligned with the bridge was also about the same time half of the surface road went up in a ball of orange flame. I immediately banked the plane to the opposite direction and hoped it didn't suddenly fall apart from the shockwave.

After spending what felt like a minute levelling it out and letting it stabilize, I turned back to see exactly what the hell just happened.

"The hell!" my sidekick exclaimed, having approximately the same thought.

"10-80, 10-80, Marvin Bridge is gone!" The same with Dispatch, too. "What the hell happened!"

"Sweet Jesus! 3-Brav- Banner, come in! Goddammit You okay?" And the cops whose escapades I'd been following.

"10-2 please repeat, I can't hear a fucking thing and I think I just lost half the goddamn skin on my body!"

"Fuck, how the hell are we still alive?"

Figuring they'd die rather than get captured, their little suicide bomb was strong enough to punch a hole right through Marvin Bridge, the suspension drooping and dangling near where the road had been obliterated. The giant stone columns still stood strong, though probably not without body parts and metal shards embedded in the bricks and mortar.

But what stood out larger than the bricks and mortar if only just was that piss-yellow cloud rising from where the gap was. The BCPD helos, somehow surviving, backed away from the scene to avoid fanning it out.

"...fuck, I'm not spraying that." I muttered.

3-Bravo-7's daughter would have a helluva story to tell about her dad. It'd be better than the one I'd tell the next day.

* * *

**Osean Federation Courthouse, Oured, CD**  
**5 November 2010**  
**1200 hrs.**

"First Lieutenant Ricardo Villa. Callsign Blaze. 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron Wardog, based at Sand Island AFB."

"Yes sir."

Sweat beaded down my forehead as I tried not to focus my glance on any particular member of the Joint Fucking Chiefs of Staff staring me down. Every branch up to and including the damn Coast Guard had their representatives here to express their displeasure at whatever they thought we did.

And this time, I was alone in the arena with four unsympathetic emperors waiting to throw me to the crowds baying for blood. I'd been shuttled here alone, so I wouldn't have a shoulder to cry on before I was sacrificed.

Going down together my ass. They were going to make sure I was the one that took them down with me. They just had to soften me up for the blow first.

"First things first," the Admiral began, "We'd like to commend you for your bravery in thwarting the terrorist attacks yesterday. The BCPD and Stockdale County Sheriff have also extended their regards, despite the...ignominious ending."

"Th...thank you."

"Now," the Admiral continued, "I take it that you understand why you're here."

"Yes...sir." Here came the fun part.

"Do you understand that the events that transpired in the last 24 hours can be construed as direct result of those that you stand accused of today?" It sounded like he was reading from a list.

"Yes sir."

"Very well. This commission has been convened to determine whether you will be subjected to courts-martial under the general article of the Code of Military Justice. This is not currently a criminal case, and legal assistance is not required to be provided."

I'd gotten the idea that reading out my rights were a useless formality back when I was a civilian. That didn't stop me from wishing I'd gotten my legal representation, paid for by the same tax zollars that also paid my salary.

"Lieutenant Villa," the Brigadier General from yesterday began, "Please describe the events of your sortie on November 2 from takeoff to landing."

"We took off from Sand Island AFB at 0800 local time, arriving in sector 12-Tango-42, Dresdene Valley."

"Spare me the dialogue," One of the other presiding officers one of the Army upper brass sounded like he'd heard it before. "Let's get down to the incident at 1015. Did you or did you not hear communications from the so-called 8492nd Squadron?"

"Yes, I did." I put both hands on the front of the stand and leaned forward, as if I was explaining this to my mom.

"All three of your wingmen have also claimed the existence of this 8492nd unit," the Army man continued.

"Yes sir," I replied, suddenly backing down.

I probably shouldn't have been surprised. Not so much by how Colonel Napoleon had been trying to shut me down before three words left my mouth, but by how much I felt cornered and genuinely intimidated by it. Hell, I would've guessed that anyone from a typical Jefferson City anarchist or freshly-minted LVO gangsta would've felt pretty much the same way during their first time on the stand.

"You should also be aware as are the rest of your squadron by this point that the 8492nd AGRS was decommissioned in 2000."

"No sir, I am not."

The Air Force Brigadier General apparently had enough. "Save us the formalities, Villa. You are denying attacking a civilian target in violation of the Sant-Mikael Convention, even though your squadron was the only one in that operating sector?"

"Yes sir."

"Hundreds of Oseans are dead because of what you did out there and you think you can just play-"

"That's enough, General." the Admiral then continued. "We're still not the goddamn prosecution. Just let the kid talk and then you'll get your turn to shout him down."

"Fine." The Brigadier General threw up his arms in frustration. "Let's get this over with."

By this point, I was hyperventilating from not being able to break my good manners. "Well, as you see, I-"

"Sorry I'm late." came a damned-near heaven-sent voice from behind.

The sight of Captain Hamilton adjusting his tie as he briskly paced into the courtroom might have finally made me put my faith in something supernatural after all its efforts to persuade me. Or rather it would have were my attention not diverted to a toolbox-sized container that he was exerting quite the effort to carry in one arm.

"The hell's the meaning of this?" the Army General exclaimed. "Are you authorized to be in here?"

"Captain Hamilton is their legal representation," the Admiral responded, trying to contain his frustration, "Late as he is."

"Had to request something from McNealy for the court date," he muttered to me as he set the large container on the table and began to remove some machinery from it. Unfortunately they only gave me one little pencil-pusher to find it since everyone else was busy with what happened yesterday."

"And that thing is going to clear me from this shit?" I asked in a voice louder than a mutter, hoping it wasn't another psyche-out.

"It had better. It's the full recording of Thunderhead's black box and transcripts for two sorties."

My jaw hung open for a second. "That thing wasn't fried? And the hell you mean two missions?"

"These 'things' can withstand a head-on crash into the mountains," Hamilton continued to explain, not batting any of the sweat trickling from my own forehead as he finished setting up the device. "A little ECCM is barely anything on this."

"Captain Hamilton," the Admiral then intervened, "I trust that what you have there is pertinent to the matter at hand?"

"Yes it is, Admiral," Hamilton replied, as he withdrew two folders from the 'toolbox' before walking up to present them to the committee. "Because I believe these matters are fabricated."

"Excuse me!" the Brigadier General interjected.

"As I said, we will hear them out. Protocol." The Admiral was clearly starting to sound like he wasn't a fan of protocol either.

"All right then," Hamilton then added, walking back to the black box and activating it.

"Captain...thanks..." I muttered to him as the recording began to play.

There was a grim sense of deja vu in hearing my own voice played back to me, snarky comments and everything.

I could only hope that the judges could bear with it long enough to understand what I also hoped would pass as the whole damn truth.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Three Days Earlier  
Volna Beach, Skladka Oblast, Yuktobania**

The telltale thud of the helicopter landing on the beachhead didn't just snap me awake and to attention, it reflexively caused me to hold my camera case like a standard-issue rifle. In fact, I had thought we were going to go straight into combat until the moment my eyes cleared of the glare from the light outside after the Chinook's ramp opened.

I was just as surprised to see the beachhead's new command center still under construction without any active combat nearby to endanger it. That didn't mean I wasn't hyperaware as my boots hit the sand, camera ready to document the flight of every single projectile that wouldn't bring a sudden end to my life. At least until an MP greeted me to escort me to the press conference about to begin within this base.

Shipping crates bearing the square logo of the North Osean industrial magnate Grunder Industries were strewn across the loading docks, bearing shiny new weapons systems to defend the new command center as well as monitor the movements of every brigade on the field.

But what caught my eye more than the military equipment going into the buildings seemingly sprouting up all across the beachhead and nearby roads were the people making sure they were built. Construction crews were busy turning this place into a minor city, and they had brought along their own security detail to make up for the lack of available troops and MPs.

Their "branding" made it clear that neither the construction nor the security were affiliated with the public sector.

Kronus International had arrived in Yuktobania ahead of me, and the moment I recognized their outfits I hoped the Man in the Tropical Shirt hadn't followed them.

I felt the urge to seek shelter almost immediately before he found me, that sense of his presence nudging my life into some kind of fast forward. I found myself snapping pictures of almost anything with the logos of Kronus and their affiliate Gründer Industries on it against my better instincts as I was drawn to my own main objective. And it felt awkward stepping into the tent while trying to switch out another roll of film.

The tent where the press conference would be held was not too far from the command center. And this being the 21st century, it even came with its own air conditioning. It had to in order to keep the journalists, the cameramen and all of their equipment, and the speaker and their assorted background props from overheating in there.

Fortunately, it wasn't hard to find a seat too far from the front with everyone else setting up their equipment. While the big networks finished calibrating their HD video cameras and satellite connections, I prepped something a little more last-century: a mini-cassette recorder. Just because I was the Oured Journal's only representative at this press conference didn't mean that I couldn't come prepared.

And it meant that I'd already gotten my notes and hopefully the question I wanted to ask as soon as a gray-haired and strongly-built General took the press conference stand.

"Due to current circumstances, we have been forced to set foot on Yuktobania with weapons in hand," he began, his voice exuding confidence.

As a Lieutenant General, Paul Howell personally oversaw much of the Osean advance into what was then South Belka in 1995. The advance was made even more rapid by the southern cities' demilitarization, and by the beginning of June the Allies were poised to race to Dinsmark against the armies of the Eastern Osea Collective Defense Yuktobania's name for their own half of the coalition.

"However, our true enemies here are the government and military that started this unjust war."

Unfortunately, he was halted before he could continue by the nuclear detonations. He had complied initially, focusing his efforts to evacuating fleeing civilians. And he was only willing to do so knowing that his Yuktobanian counterparts would do the same.

"It will inevitably be said that we are here to oppress, to take away the people's rights, and perhaps their resources."

Yet General Oleg Ivanovich Pushkin, who commanded the northern contingent of the EOCD, won that race with a surprise raid on Dinsmark three days after the detonations. To add insult to injury, it was also rumored that Chancellor Wilhelm Drexler was really assassinated by agents of the KGB headed then as now by his close ally Kiril Tarasovich Semyonov.

"But the people have suffered under the yoke of the bureaucratic elite for too long."

This war, therefore, was the perfect stone with which two metaphorical birds. Pushkin was now Yuktobania's Defense Minister, and would no doubt be back in command of his army. He would not only finish the job he started fifteen years ago; it would be against the same officers that had taken his glory.

"Therefore, I ask you, citizens of Yuktobania: Do not fear us, but rather join us in throwing off the shackles of a government that has only delivered oppression upon empty promises of equality. And join us in leading Yuktobania through to a new era of democracy that will bring that egalitarianism to you at long last."

Predictably, there was little applause before Howell opened up the floor to questions. Perhaps it's because they'd heard more cliched fire-and-brimstone spewed from some of Osea's more infamous Councilmen. In any event, my hand went up with about half the others, and it was clear they'd preferred the big networks' questions first.

"Brian Eagleston, GNN. How long can we expect this invasion to last?"

With my recorder on, I took a quick look around while the General answered. There was a Weazel News camera in the tent - but no Jonas Stromberg to accompany it.

"We will march forward and we will not lay down our arms until the Yuktobanian capital has fallen," Howell continued. "I cannot give an exact date but at our current pace we expect to accomplish this by the end of the year." He then pointed at another reporter raising his hand.

"Charlie Gomez, from Osea National Broadcasting. Aren't you concerned about budgetary restraints in the event of a protracted conflict?"

"Council is already working on expanding the defense budget next year. The new appropriations bill will help bolster both our efforts to liberate Yuktobania as well as our own homeland defense. We are going to make sure that Osea is no longer as vulnerable as we were a month ago."

In other words, they knew they were building up momentum as quick as it was fragile. If they'd gotten the backing of Council and the President's possibly-vicarious signature, there was hardly anything they couldn't achieve until midterms next year. If we won...the 'nay' voters could kiss their seats goodbye.

"Yes, you there, with the recorder."

Political ramifications aside, my thought train was suddenly derailed when I realized that Howell wanted me to ask the next question.

As if switched on with the push of a button, I took a deep breath and stood up, pressing the record button on the mini-cassette. I could feel myself blushing for being called out so suddenly, almost like I was in elementary school.

"Albert Genette... for the Oured Journal. Following up on Mr. Gomez, can you give a comment on the increasingly extensive roles of private military contractors with this campaign?"

"I can't go into specifics regarding our contracts or specific companies, but I will say that they are forbidden from engaging in direct combat unless fired upon." Howell explained after some hesitation. "They are also subject to the Code of Military Justice should they be involved in any abuses."

It was then that he was approached by one of his aides.

"No more questions, please," he said before suddenly turning to leave. The assembled press stood up and tried to get closer but were blocked by MPs. But I had actually sat down, now feeling like I was lost in some kind of human corn field.

We all knew why the press conference had suddenly ended. The General had been called out to something, and I could surmise from the sudden appearance of the MPs that we would soon be flown out - and I hoped, not over something I might have taken.

The reason for _that_, as I would soon learn, was much, much worse.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**5,000 feet above and 23 miles WNW of YCU-Istochnik, Yuktobania**  
**1015 hrs.**

_"Hey-hey-hey kid! Did you take a listen to that song?"_

"...what song?"

_"That new one from Rolling Thunder."_

"No, I'm not that kinda guy."

Day 2 of the March to Cinigrad was going along swimmingly. That is, our contingent had hit the beachhead running toward the hills, and the Red Army running _for_ the hills.

_"You didn't listen to it? 'Tail Spin' is a masterpiece!"_

And it was above these hills that we were trying to catch the Red Army before they could regroup. Our F-16s were stocked to the hilt with Sidewinders for a target-rich environment, and I was in the mood to share that wealth with the folks beside me and the scraps to the unlucky folks waiting below.

"Sounds like something for furries to yiff to."

"Pfft, you listen to that stuff all the time with me! You know it's growing on you!"

Between the start and the destination though, there was the journey. And the flight from Sand Island gave us plenty of time to forget our new neighbors.

"The whole fucking base listens to that stuff with you! You want a masterpiece, you gotta hear some of the stuff outta the L-V-O. That's music told as it is, not some suburban shit."

"Isn't rap one letter short of crap?" Grimm then added, much to Chopper's amusement.

"...fuck you, Archer." I muttered as my HMD began to light up. "Just for that, you're covering my pretty Fuerte-Grasya ass today."

_"Transport flight at bearing 1-0-0, 2 miles. Wardog, you are clear to engage."_

"You heard the man, folks, weapons hot. Engage- goddammit."

The problem wasn't that the fighters and the transports were flying in a freakishly predictable formation, nor that the titanic Antonov transports were escorted by more standard Fulcrums.

The problem was that my HMD lit up more indicators than the Red Air Force had in their entire fleet, let alone more than our combined missile total. I could feel my head starting to warm up in the helmet as if either the electronics were overloading from all the new indicators or I was suddenly getting the bends and hallucinating.

_"Unbelievable!"  
"We gotta bag all these planes?"  
"You think every enemy plane in the area is up and flying?"  
"Well, let's ask them hey, how many planes you got there! Man, this is making me cry."_

At least I wasn't the only one seeing things.

_"There's way too many signatures on radar. Kid, Nagase? How about you guys?"_

"My radar's showing strange results as well," Edge concurred. "Something's going on."

Truth was I knew exactly what was going on. It was a technique I'd only heard about in the usual

"Shit, we're being ghosted! Everyone dive!"

And right on cue as if hearing our exclamation destroyed our stealth, the 'ghosts' rushed us. Our formation splintered four ways to next Sunday as the Fulcrums turned away from their transports and moved to make missile lock.

I dove for the mountains, gliding under the horde before climbing back up to meet them.

"They can mess with our displays but not our targeting," I continued, looping back up to catch what registered as 10 fighters flying in two clusters. The clumps were so close that the Yukes may as well have sent their air show flyers to meet us.

"Good copy," Edge agreed. "We can still use visual identification."

"Easy for you to say, I'm kinda getting dizzy seeing all this red!" Chopper added through what sounded like a missile lock. "Got 'em yet, Edge?"

"Almost there..." came her chillingly calm reply.

One cluster broke off as I caught up to the other in a loop. At the range I chased it, it was easy to spot which marker wasn't the ghost and lock onto it. After that it was only a matter of time before a Sidewinder shredded its stabilizers.

"Splash one!" came my verification.

"Hey Edge, thanks!" Chopper replied against background noise that no longer included a missile lock. "Two down, forty to go!"

"...the heck are Bears doing up there?" Grimm suddenly asked as I found myself trying to elude the Fulcrum's partner. "And there's only one- Hey guys...you think maybe..."

"Lemme give you a minute to think, 'kay?" I replied as I suddenly jammed on the airbrake and corkscrewed to let my pursuer pass me. His cluster quickly filled my HMD's vision along with his actual plane, which turned out to be a much easier target since he had to airbrake too as soon as he realized what I just did.

Not that he had time to remedy it with the gatling cannon colonic I administered to his Mikoyan.

"A ha! I think I figured it out!" Grimm sounded like he'd found the cure for freaking cancer as I turned back to face the rest of the Charlie Foxtrot.

"Well, do share your keen insights please? What's up?"

Why the Yukes had brought bombers to the occasion was beyond me until Grimm practically brought it to my face.

"First Lieutenant Chopper, jammer aircraft!"

By Jove, I think he got it.

"Of course. The Bear also serves as an electronic warfare platform." Edge did too. "They've got to be somewhere close. Let's take care of them first."

"All righty then. Grimm and I will knock 'em out." I said as I pulled into a climb toward a single HMD marker in the sky. "Edge, Chopper, watch our six."

"Got it." Chopper then took a deep breath. "Ghosts aren't so bad once you've figured out the trick to 'em."

The Tupolev Tu-95 Bear was the most powerful prop-driven aircraft still in active service. And sitting pretty above the transports and its escorts, it was an easy target to lock onto.

At least I thought it was until I fired off a Sidewinder only to see it disappear under a shower of flares.

"Jesus fuck."

Then just as the flares dissipated, another one of them sliced right into where the starboard wing met the fuselage, causing it to fall out of the sky in a deadly cocktail of oil and smoke. I turned to the side to catch the explosion on the way up before rebounding to watch the falling wreckage.

"...Jesus fuck again, Grimm! Nice shot!"

"Thanks, Captain." Grimm had pulled up behind me on radar, and we were both facing the same thing. "Looks like there's one more."

Another Tupolev lurked dead ahead, and was already pushing its turboprops to maximum power in some kind of attempt to escape us. Not that it had to when its escorts were rushing to its defense.

"Dammit, someone's locked onto me!" Grimm said, breaking off his pursuit and diving.

"I'll take care of this," Edge suddenly replied. "Just lead him away."

"Sorry, Captain, looks like this one's up to you."

"Right, I'll get 'em."

Replicating the same tactics that destroyed the last Bear was actually easily done with only one plane instead of two - and with my aim steady enough to chip away at the old thing with my M61. Ultimately, I decided to put it out of its misery with my second-to-last Sidewinder, having used the third-to-last one to bait its flares.

"Bam, baby!" I clenched a fist as my F-16 blew past what remained of the Tupolev and its fancy-ass electronics. "Looks like we got ourselves a transport turkey shoot now!" Bad impressions of a Middle Osean redneck aside, a cursory check of my radar revealed far fewer bogies than there were only 15 seconds ago.

"You think it's gonna be that easy now?" Chopper suddenly asked.

"Easier on the eyes, maybe." I said, shaking my head as I swooped down toward one of the mega-Antonovs. "Fuck, I think I was gonna have a seizure there for a moment."

"Yeah, I don't think so eith-"

The sudden manifestation of interference also known as my radio suddenly going dead caused me to overshoot the massive cargo plane and pull myself back up before my plane became a glorified lawn dart in the Yuke backwater.

"What the hell- Chopper, you there?"

_"Dammit...even our ra...can't..."_

It was easy to point my plane back up at the Antonov for another run. No biggie, I thought. Just another of the Yukes' dirty radio tricks, or maybe they had another jammer about, I thought. The Antonov is a giant fucking turkey and the only way I couldn't hit it was if they'd figured out a way to shut my entire goddamn plane down, I thought.

_"This is the 8492nd leader. All 8492nd units proceed as planned."_

I didn't suspect that we were being set up until it was too late.

* * *

**5 November 2010**  
**Osean Federation Courthouse  
Oured, CD**

**1124 hrs.**

And now, here I was. Being bailed out by my own adjutant base commander. Truth be told, I was damned thankful that he seemed to be doing a damn good job at it.

Thunderhead's black box had not only survived the jamming, but had recorded every friendly transmission that went through our radio - including the "supposed" 8492nd's as well as Chopper's attempt at sick humor during the interference _and_ my reply.

An Osean squadron had been responsible for attacking a civilian college being used as an evacuation center, which warranted _their_ retaliatory attacks that left hundreds dead and two cities burning. But there was nothing in the recordings that suggested we did it.

Barring any accusations that they were edited, Hamilton was thoughtful enough to present the full transcript of the recording from our little mission with Mother Goose One.

"8492 AGRS relieves 108 TFS for CAP duty...Cargo recovered by Waldron County emergency services assisted by on-scene private contractors."

The way the Army General reading those words aloud seemed to get increasingly frustrated as he did, was probably a sign that whatever Hamilton had planned was working. I hoped then that the heads that would roll didn't include mine.

"If you could explain how a squadron disbanded in 2000 could still show up on records ten years on, then we're all ears," Hamilton added sternly.

As they "deliberated" amongst themselves whether to just fuck the evidence and make me the fall guy, I was almost praying that they would somehow stick to whatever principles the "authority" still had when it came to evaluating innocence through evidence. One paper particularly struck them - probably the transcript of the rest of our first 8492nd encounter. After some time, the Admiral stood up and decided my fate:

"Upon further review of the evidence, we have decided to adjourn this hearing without moving to court martial. Dismissed."

There were no relatives to hug me. There were no tearful bystanders crying with relief or in vengeance. There was only me, alone, and the thumbs up given by the Emperor to spare me for now.

The Brigadier General let out an exasperated huff at the same time I let out a sigh.

I collapsed back into my seat, taking a deep breath, as Hamilton put his hand on my shoulder. The presiding officers stood up, their leader more frustrated than the others.

"Don't think this means you're in the clear though," the Brigadier grunted before he passed us. "You're going to have to prove your innocence out there while we try to figure out more about this ghost squadron. Especially with your flight instructor still curiously MIA."

As ominous as he sounded, I didn't actually feel any more intimidated by the Brigadier General's last sentence as I was supposed to. Probably because I wasn't aware of how deep Heartbreak One's history of heartbreaking ran. In any event, the departure of the last commissioned officer felt like a massive weight was lifted off my chest.

"Fuck...I can't believe it's done." I groaned. "Thanks, Captain."

"You're welcome Blaze," Hamilton replied with a soft but noticeable smile, as he began packing up the recorder as methodically as he set it up.

"Look, I really owe you this. I didn't wanna-"

"It's no problem, Villa." Hamilton continued, adjusting his hat. "We can't lose our heroes yet."

Yet. Three letters I should definitely have paid attention to. A slip of the tongue that I couldn't catch but sealed my fate right then and there more than any military tribunal could.

* * *

**1312 hrs.**

**Highway O-1, 5 mi. N of Redford National**

"Hey kid..."

"Yeah, Chopper?"

The shuttle to our ride back to Sand Island took us down an Interstate that breezed the boundary between the Great Osean Institution buildings of the Capital District and the neighborhoods that the movies never showed us. The skies were overcast, which I preferred over the clear blue sunny ones for not wanting to go blind after stepping out of that court room.

"I guess...I wanna say sorry for blowing up back there with Scorpion."

It was the first conversation we made since I boarded the shuttle with them, and I smirked. Victory or vindication, whatever it was, didn't taste as sweet as before. Not after the first taste anyway.

"Like I said, don't worry 'bout it. We only got F-16s, but we're walkin our talk." I explained confidently, before offering a hand across the aisle in reconciliation. "Those guys gotta be rusty as shit."

"Yeah, you got that right." Chopper chuckled, as he shook it. "And Edge is probably right about their star power over teamwork."

"I still feel sorry for Shadow though." Grimm suddenly said. "I don't know if he can handle Scorpion or Venom."

"They wouldn't have kept him outta reserve if they didn't see potential, I guess..." I replied, looking out the window at the wrong side of the Interstate. "Like they could've transferred you back to reserve after the day we rescued you."

"Yeah, that's true. But you guys've been behind me all the way." Grimm reacted. "At least I hope you are."

"Chillax, _p're_," I replied with a classic Fugoy street phrase as I turned a little to face Grimm, who sat behind Chopper. "We fly together, we die together. At least I hope we don't die."

"Me neither..." Edge said, just softly enough to be heard above the motors. "If what happened was anything to go by, things are going to get pretty tough from now on."

I nodded, knowing for once exactly what she meant. We had been acquitted and returned back to the grind. No doubt the Yukes would fight harder as we claimed their precious Motherland.

I'd need to savor every second I had to "chillax," especially when I had no idea how right Edge really was - and no idea why Hamilton would assert the existence of a squad that didn't.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea  
2032 hrs. local**

The more I went through the pictures I accumulated during my short trip to Yuktobania, the more I felt drawn into my obsession. I was surprised that they let me keep more photos than before this time - especially the ones of the contractors and weapons crates. Maybe they were more disappointed that I hadn't gotten more pictures of their own soldiers, well or wounded.

My background ambience didn't help.

_"We now go live to Jonas Stromberg in Apito."  
"Hi Miranda, it's great to be back on the air again."  
"Everyone here is very thankful you're alive, and you've just gotten out of the hospital, correct?_

Every major news agency, domestic and international, continued to devote a significant portion of their web pages and airtime to covering what was now being dubbed as "Eleven Four."

The running bodycount naturally made for primetime material. The gas attacks left hundreds dead - thousands were it not for the deployment of airborne neutralizers - including the terrorist team, which blew themselves up with the remaining stock rather than surrender. And at the airport, the fleeing Yuktobanian fighters took out an Osea Airways flight in a holding pattern.

_"Yes I am, Miranda. I'm still shaken but definitely alive."_

But no agency had gotten closer to the action than Weazel News - the only agency that through sheer luck had a person _in_ the airport during the attacks on the ground. Luck that may not have been good for that person being Jonas Stromberg.

_"We've just finished going through your footage and I can honestly say that it must have been horrifying for you."_

_"Yes it was, I just...I didn't know if the next bullet they fired would be the one to kill me."_

Most of the base crew were probably already watching the same thing in the mess hall, and I would definitely have stuck out like a sore thumb to be on my laptop in there.

_"Can you tell us what happened? How did you survive?"_

As it turned out, he had been covering troop deployments from local bases since the invasion began, and was caught out at Apito with a vengeance. Or rather, Yuktobania's vengeance.

_"We were being evacuated while the air battle was going on - but on the way out this commando group - definitely Yuktobanian, just came out of one of the elevators and began just...killing everyone. Oh God. They didn't...they didn't care who they were or what age..."_

I had to concede that not even Jonas Stromberg could fake tears after witnessing something like that. But that still didn't stop WNC from showing footage after repeated reminders to keep the kids away from the TV.

_"How did you manage to survive?"_

_"I played dead among the other bodies. I know it sounds horrifying, but they didn't seem to care about checking the ones that didn't move. As soon as I was sure they were gone, I took out my smartphone and filmed this under a waiting seat."_

His footage was probably already circulating around every video upload site - and its copies swiftly deleted on those sites leery of such material.

_"You got out."_

_"Yeah. I stayed hidden under that seat until a SWAT officer found me. I'm told it was only 30 minutes but it felt like forever."_

Yet it was one flickering headline on the ticker that - heinous as my own subsequent action sounded - caused me to sideline Stromberg under my virtual clipboard and other internet windows.

_NO-BID CONTRACT FOR KRONUS INTL CRITICIZED_

I quickly delved into the archives for more info on what exactly happened out there with the "attempted assassination" of the President.

Osea's outsourcing to private contractors wasn't new. Its military downsizing after the Belkan War naturally meant more soldiers ending up on the so-called "Circuit" to provide security or logistics or other duties for both government and private interests. Hundreds of millions of zollars were given in contracts every year.

But although they didn't identify the company, the "emergency landing of a military aircraft" and the destruction of the surrounding windmills happened in the same Savannah county where Kronus operated its training grounds. Their near-omnipresence in Yuktobania couldn't have been mere coincidence.

The sound of an aircraft landing outside was my conscience's cue to pull me away from slipping off the deep end into tinfoil conspiracy theory.

_"The question everyone is probably asking now is...why. Why did you film this?"_

_"I...I don't know. Maybe it was instinct. But I guess I didn't want to die without letting people see...I wanted people to know what we're going up against. We didn't deserve this. Nobody does."_

_"Well then, I hope the authorities can catch those criminals and bring them to justice. Thanks Jonas."_

Transport aircraft were shuttling in and out of the base almost non-stop. I hoped one of them would be carrying the Wardogs back from their trial.

I also hoped that none of them would be carrying the Man In The Tropical Shirt after the pictures I took. But more than anything, I hoped they didn't bring the Wardogs back changed like Villa seemed to act when it came to dealing with the Yukes.

Stromberg was right. We didn't deserve this. And we certainly did not deserve to stoop lower than they did.

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_

_A/N 1: Continuing on developing Fort Grace as the Philippines instead of Comona, "Fugoy" is the analogue to "Pinoy."_

_A/N 2: Hoped this one would be shorter than the last, and failed miserably. Still offering Homestuck reference cameos, if I haven't made this one too blatantly obvious._


	17. Four Riders Were Approaching

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**In a Blaze of Glory (Soldier)**  
**Chapter 7: Four Riders Were Approaching**

"_He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare, and he who has one enemy will meet him everywhere._" - Ali bin Abu-Talib**  
**

* * *

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**14 November 2010**  
**0612 hrs. (all times local)**

_"Hey, what're you writing there?"_

It wasn't often when the skies over Sand Island turned gray, so I tried to savor it whenever they did. Sometimes it was to the point where I stopped paying attention to whatever was happening outside, which often got me a good scolding from the late LTC Ford or my presumably-late instructor.

_"...I just can't remember this next phrase..."_

Still, it was the sort of weather to relax near a warmth-emitting object and enjoy a story or audiobook. The sort of thing to pass the time while waiting for the damn briefing officers to arrive five minutes later than they were supposed to, even after they woke you up at four in the goddamn morning to get ready.

_"Hey, lemme see."_

_"...the princess couldn't feed the dove that day. She was too sick."_

The verse from a famous fairy tale, of all things, diverted my attention toward its reader. Edge had apparently been a fan of older books, and her latest obsession had really captured her - or rather, it had suddenly captured my attention.

_"May I have a look?"_

_"Razgriz. The demon of Razgriz got her, right?"_

_"You know the story?"_

_"The demon from the north sea. I remember, my grandmother used to read me bedtime stories about it. And every time she did, I'd be too scared to go the bathroom in the middle of the night."_

Definitely not the kind of response expected from a kindergarten reading circle.

_"Ugh..."_

"How about you, Blaze?" Grimm suddenly asked, "You look like you know a little bit about the legend."

"...hmm?" The next thing I knew I was expecting him to pop quiz me.

"Oh yeah, you got his attention," Chopper added. The three of them were looking at me, sitting alone by the window, like the answer to that pop quiz would determine if I would become an astronaut or dead in prison for petty theft. "So what do you know about the Razgriz?"

"What, from the Blue Dove book?" I asked, turning to face them.

The fact that I knew where it came from perked Edge's attention in such a way that her face seemed to show the first sign of actual emotion witnessed by humankind. Sure, it was probably her eyes opened wider in curiosity, but it was there.

"Yeah. How do you know of the Blue Dove?" she asked.

My first answer was related to the fact that one of the many men my mom courted to replace my biological dad happened to speak Belkan, and he made for quite the audiobook of the original Brothers Grumbacher - grisly original details and all. The Blue Dove tale was probably one of the milder tales he told.

My guess was that Edge wasn't the type to be content with a big book company's translation either.

"Bedtime story." I shrugged. "Like Chopper."

"Heh, you couldn't go the bathroom either, right?" he chuckled.

I didn't laugh though, and that was because my real answer was not too different, but a lot more real.

Sometime before the Belkan War, I'd suddenly woken up one night to what sounded like a bottle breaking in my room.

That "broken bottle" turned out to be a stray bullet passing through my bedroom window on one side of my bed and embedding itself in the wall about a foot up from where I slept on the other side.

I had barely started puberty during the Las Violas Riots, but I ended up sharing the bed with my mother for weeks after the last Humvees left the streets. And it wasn't until I started carpooling with some friends in the 11th grade when my mother didn't escort me out to and from the school bus every day with a concealed WZ75.

I suppose if there would be one thing I could take home from this tour of duty over some hellhole - it would be the ability to escort my mom places around the City of Violets instead of the other way around.

"I guess you could say that." I said, turning away.

"I think what he means to say..." Edge added, "What did your parents tell you about the Razgriz?"

The one thing I vaguely remember my almost-stepdad saying was that the Razgriz was a punisher more than a mere destroyer. And what I got from it after seeing the riots was that it would simply finish what the humans started.

Of course, the one thing that caused me to remember _that_ was how similar it was to my mom's obsession with Rapture literature, which blossomed like the Garden of Motherfucking Eden after Ulysses and Usea's war.

I would never suspect that seven years later I would wonder what other soldiers would tell their kids about us.

"Eh...I-"

"Settle down, people," Captain Hamilton said, as he, Colonel Perrault, and some very-important-looking Army officer with some very-important-handcuffed-briefcase entered the room.

The briefing officers arrived, and we all returned to our designated seats. The way the Very Important Officer carried a solemn expression on his face as he opened and unpacked the briefcase he was attached to easily meant that we had a Very Important mission that only we could somehow do.

As the room darkened and a new briefing map appeared showing what appeared to be Emmeria and Estovakia instead of Yuktobania, the first question going through my head was why it wasn't being assigned to Venom.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Crew Quarters**  
**One Week Earlier  
1424 hrs.**

_...emergency session of the General Assembly voted to condemn the Osean Federation and Union of Yuktobanian Republics for the terrorist incidents that occurred earlier this week. The resolution expressed 'global sympathy' for the victims of the attacks and condemned the "aggressive reactions based purely on speculation."_

_The Security Council is now expected to debate on possible economic sanctions against the two superpowers should the war continue into 2011._

_Meanwhile, in Osea, opinion polls have showed an increasingly favorable attitude to the war following the terrorist attacks last Thursday..._

It had taken a while for the news networks to get settled into aftermath mode after live, non-stop coverage of "Eleven Four," coined by Weazel News to refer to a day that would live in infamy.

"Albert, I can't use this."

"...what?"

But even after both domestic and international news went back to covering the war on the front lines, I continued to keep my eyes peeled on various sites for more blips about another, very related issue.

"I mean I can use the stuff you have about the press conference and Howell, and the photos. Those are perfect. But most of your other stuff is about the contractors."

"...I don't understand."

Finding that Kronus International had been given a no-bid contract had gotten me digging like Mr. Driller. Soon I had a much more comprehensive background of Kronus' operations leading up to the war: from the companies that merged to form Kronus a few years ago to the relationships that the new staff made with Osean government officials at conferences.

And that led to Kronus establishing their new reputation through juicy contracts abroad. That they were awarded a billion-zollar contract would have been no surprise to _them_ with all the friends they made. And that allowed them to run a disturbingly modern military force supplied with weapons from their affiliate - Gründer Industries. That they were also working on projects for the two now-warring superpowers was no surprise, and they were quick to shut down anything that would clearly have registered as a 'conflict of interest.'

"The Army isn't sponsoring your stay so you can write about the security guards that transit through their base, Albert."

"They're a part of this war as much as our troops are."

I had even gone so far as finding out that Grunder Industries' CEO Johann Seiler even held membership in the now-outlawed National Workers' Party until the war ended - though he had been thorough in disavowing himself from it after the South Belka _Munitionsfabrik_ had privatized into the company he led.

As a result, the virtual flow-chart that was supposed to have been investigating how the conflict started now saw the section dedicated to Kronus practically dwarf that of Yuktobania. Yet the yawning gap between the two was still bridged only by the mystery Man In The Tropical Shirt.

That didn't stop me from spending much of my waking hours the next day compiling a draft article on the contractors to send back to the _Journal_.

"But you're not exactly _obligated_ to_ investigate_ the contractors, let alone write about them." In other words, it was a journalistic no-no to deviate from the course.

It was actually quite easy to write the basic article covering the interrupted press conference despite all the times I'd put it off. And I'd been able to send the negatives directly back to Oured, considering how most of the pictures they _hadn't_ censored had the contractors in them. Perhaps they didn't find it too out of the ordinary.

My bureau chief, however, did. At least in the sense that he found them distracting from the war effort.

"Albert, you're going back to Yuktobania," he continued exasperatedly. "The EIC wants some 'day in the life' stuff about the soldiers in the field."

Having gone numb from constant echoes of the obvious tragedy, the idea that I'd be getting that much closer to the front line certainly seemed to erase most of my fatigue all at once.

"...what?!"

"Don't worry, you're still not going to the front lines. They just want you to bring back the 'hearts and minds' stuff. Tag along for patrols, reaching out to the locals, getting patched up, _heartwarming_ stuff like that."

The bureau chief's attempt at relieving the shock and awe he caused instead turned it into suspicion.

"...isn't that _propaganda_?"

I could hear a long sigh over the smartphone's receiver. "Not gonna lie to you. Some pretty high-up folks read your Four Wings article and they wanna see if you can scout out some more heroes for them."

"That's what it's all about, isn't it?" I bemoaned.

The fallout of the Belkan War hadn't just included radiation poisoning. The military's downsizing as well as the economic crisis caused by Ulysses and the Usean War had left Osean society in need of 'heroes'. While some commentators would say that Harling and Appelrouth's winning campaign played to the meme, it still meant two individuals in high office, out of reach. And volunteers in cities and natural disasters didn't appeal outside their respective regions.

"Yeah. They looked through your previous stuff too. Call it forcing some news meme or something, but he figures you're the kinda guy to really help a story hit home."

That meant they knew I'd set the Wardogs on the path to heroism with my article. Now the land forces were wondering if they could produce the same - at least to keep from developing an inferiority complex.

"And you're sure...no front line stuff?"

I briefly recalled Captain Bartlett, who was now not only missing - but the target of suspicion from base gossip. The fact that he disappeared so suddenly as hostilities began instead of afterward - along with his now-infamous fling with a femme fatale Spetsnaz officer - also started to reflect upon his pilots.

"You want to?"

Apart from Villa, whose increasingly hostile demeanor toward Yuktobania seemed to mollify the Base Commander, their exoneration from the military commission did not alleviate the suspicions placed on them.

"Okay, I'm up for it."

"Good. I'll see if I can get Hamilton to book you on the next plane out. And Albert...thanks."

I hung up and looked at the latest "care package" from the Journal - a small digital camera that starkly contrasted with the big old film one I'd been using since the press conference, as well as a complimentary thumb drive. Maybe they didn't want me to risk such a valuable piece of equipment.

But I knew I was already starting to take a big risk deviating from my assigned job of documenting the lives of these soldiers - let alone the lives of the private armies.

As I began to prepare myself for another foray into the wilderness, I also wondered if the Journal wanted to make me a hero as well - at least so they didn't develop an inferiority complex against Jonas Stromberg.

* * *

**10 miles SE of KHAZMASH (Khazevsk Manufacturing Plant), Sonza Oblast**  
**7 November 2010**  
**1129 hrs.**

"Wardog 1 to wing, break formation and commence attack."

_"Geez, now they got us turning back into another battle. And this scenery definitely clashes with my rock and roll."_

_"I'm just glad they're not ordering us to attack a city in retaliation for their retaliation."_

_"Yeah, you can say that again. Thank goodness there's nobody around here that we have to attack."_

_"This is Thunderhead. Cut the chatter."_

After getting the first thing I'd had to a good night's sleep in at least a month, the higher-ups quickly threw us back into the fray. And to be honest, considering we'd narrowly botched a terrorist arrest, it was pretty easy getting back into the groove of things. Not that I could say the same about the mood of things.

_"Heh...and yet this guy's always here."_

_"Oh, he'll quiet down soon. It wouldn't be a surprise attack if he came along with us."_

_"I repeat, cut the chatter. Synchronize your watches before arrival."_

Hell, I had every reason to feel good about waking up that morning. We'd been cleared from suspicion of a crime against humanity, and as a bonus Colonel Perrault trusted us - or me at least. We were once again leading the charge, back as a team, moving toward a victory decades in the making one step at a time. Riding and hopefully not dying together for once. All that metaphorical bullshit.

_"...5 seconds to 1130 hours...Mark."_

_"I'll begin the countdown for attack in just a moment. We have to destroy the radars when the countdown reaches zero."_

Yet there was one very good reason why I wasn't feeling good about what we were doing.

And that reason was that we were technically no longer leading the charge.

That afternoon we flew into Yuktobania specifically to destroy the radar screens deployed around the KHAZMASH weapons factory - the same one where they invented the AK-47. As a challenge, we had to destroy each layer of radar in damn near perfect sync to avoid tripping the entire net, and our F-16s were packing HARM missiles to make sure that we didn't miss.

All things considered, we were doing a damn good job at it for timing everything on brand-new standard-issue Breitlings instead of some digital display on our HMD.

As funky as that would be though, this still wasn't a video game. And the real heroes of the operation would clean up after us.

"Venom 1 to Wardog Squadron. We're 200 clicks out from the complex and closing fast. That red carpet had better be rolled out soon."

There lay the rub. We were only there to take out the radar sites and a group of transports loaded with bullets for the lucky bastards behind the disposable grunts carrying the empty guns.

"Sure thing, Venom 1. Weather forecast is clear skies for snakes."

"...hey kid, we destroy these things on 3-2-1-zero, right?"

"Yep. Hope you paid attention in physics class. Ready HARM."

Never mind that their F-22s had a radar cross-section the size of a goddamn pincushion, they told us, several coordinated radars would've easily caught six of them flying in at once so we needed to take the network out to be "extra sure."

Maybe we had the bigger responsibility, because what we did would ensure that the weapons facility was vulnerable in the first place. But ultimately, we were still the harbinger. Or rather, we were the grunts up front with the peashooters playing decoy for the lucky bastards behind us with the goddamn bazookas.

"30 seconds to countdown...mark."

The four horsemen preceding the apocalypse.

The idea that it would be Venom getting the rep made adjusting the throttle to reach the radar on schedule feel as shaky as trying to maneuver a bullet train around a mountain ridge.

"10 seconds."

After we took out the transports, we were pretty much clear to do whatever we wanted with the rest of our ammo before we returned to base.

"5, 4, 3-"

"HARM free."

The sight of the active denial of satellite adult television to the Red Army was nowhere near as exciting as it was supposed to be. Then again, we had three more clusters to take out. Three more attempts to relieve me of my disappointment.

"Next cluster, 5 miles." Edge continued, hardly fazed by the stress of precision timing.

"How does she know when to start the countdown, anyway?" Chopper asked curiously.

"Nops do math better than us Grasyanos, that's how," I grumbled.

"That's not a nice thing to say, Captain!" Grimm suddenly exclaimed.

"The hell are you, my mom?" I snapped back. "Fine, I'll take it back. Sorry."

Five miles went too quick for me to take it back, but it was plenty enough time for her to accept my less-than-half-assed attempt at an apology.

"Nothing good comes from unearthing old grudges, Blaze. 30 seconds."

Not knowing how to reply, I simply glared at the oncoming green cluster of dots in my HMD. 30 seconds later my plane heaved from giving the next layer of the radar complex a good High-speed Anti-Radiation Makeover.

"We did it! Our timing was perfect!" Grimm called out to note that none of us had fucked up on the second layer. "The interval between radars is getting shorter and shorter!"

"That's good," I muttered to myself, "I was running short on material."

"Okay, I think I'm finally getting the hang of this," Chopper continued.

Which was also a good thing in itself, or at least it would have been had the gap not been filled by the voice I wasn't dreading.

"Venom Team to Wardog. We're 50 miles out and rolling in hot and heavy," came Vincent 'Scorpion' Ramirez's attempt at being seductive, "You'd better get rid of that Charlie Bravo or it's gonna be a Charlie Foxtrot up in here."

Okay, so perhaps I was merely dreading the inevitable. But the dread was supposed to turn into relief when the inevitable actually did happen, not so much into disappointment.

"Good copy, Venom, should be able to penetrate straight through once we're done," I replied, my enthusiasm clearly lacking. "Edge, gimme an ETA to the second set?"

"30 seconds...mark." If there was one thing that brought back my dread, it was how professional she continued to sound.

"Blaze, are you worried about Venom Squadron again?" Grimm suddenly asked.

Thank you, Captain obvious. "Not really," I replied.

"Just remember what Edge said, man," Chopper consoled. "Just because they got fully-loaded F-22s with- ah, dammit, we're almost here."

"10 seconds."

In those ten seconds before the second-to-last layer of radars received the AGM-88 Treatment, I not only remembered what Chopper was referring to, I also tried forwarding myself through those five psychological stages of however accepting the inevitable went.

I got to about stage three of the process before another of my missiles actively denied the Yukes their pirated Alderney Shore, and was then reminded that we weren't quite done rolling out the red carpet.

"That's three radar layers down, Wardog," Thunderhead confirmed. "The Yukes are routing a fighter patrol inbound to see what's going on, but the factory is still all quiet."

"Well, at least I'll have something to do," I grumbled.

"30 seconds to the final set," Edge confirmed as I geared the throttle up for a running hit, "We can do this."

"But yeah, like I was saying," Chopper continued, "He's just tryin' to break us up and he thinks you're the weak link."

"The fuck's that mean?" I retorted with a raised eyebrow not even I could feel from being pushed back in my seat. Or one that I couldn't feel as compared to suddenly turning my head to face where I thought Chopper was flying for a moment.

"Ah, sorry man, just...keep tryin' not to let it get to you." As the final countdown began, I could at least find some relief that I wasn't the only one taking words back.

"5...4...3..."  
"HARM out."

My F-16 heaved once again as the last AGM-88 freed itself from its respective pylon.

"Bayum!" I shouted, as I left my portion of the final layer of radars thoroughly HARMed. Both man and machine seemed to breathe some kind of sigh of relief as the hard part of the mission was pretty much over.

"Last radar cluster confirmed destroyed," was Thunderhead's confirmation. "All planes, you are cleared to attack the weapons facility."

At long, long last, I could put the kangaroo court behind me and revel the satisfaction of another job well done. At least until Scorpion once again reminded me that he was actually part of the mission.

"This is Venom 1, there's our green light." came Scorpion's excited exclamation. "Thanks again, Wardog."

"Copy that, we'll take out the transports and bug out," I replied with a long sigh, before cutting off the radio and adding, "You lucky bastard" under my breath as a half-dozen F-22s suddenly zoomed past us from above, rattling our puny F-16s in their jetwash. I closed my eyes for a second to let the rumble subside, and opened them again to find a nice, neat row of new targets on the HMD - Antonov 125 transport planes plodding their way toward the runway to take off.

"Blaze, if you and your boys wanna hang around and keep some commie flies off our asses, that'd be very much appreciated."

Nope, totally not getting to my head there.

"Just strafe 'em before they can take off, Sidewinders if they do." I added, duly noting that our only other missiles were a pair of Sidewinders for 'self-defense.' That was good in that we also had a nice full stock of cannon ammunition.

"Roooger that, Captain- whoa." Chopper's affirmation was cut off by the surprise we all seemed to share as the actual AK-47 factory came into view.

Or rather, what was left of it. Venom were already doing their dirty work, slashing and burning across warehouses and assembly lines amidst an upward rain of anti-aircraft fire. Although a damn good portion were left standing right now, I could hazard a guess and a couple of zollars there wasn't going to be much left on this lawn after we snipped off those Antonovs.

"Okay guys, same as always. Buddy up and attack together. Chopper's with me this time."

"Hooyeah!" Chopper was clearly celebrating not being paired up with Grimm again.

"What about the fighters?" Edge asked. A quick check of my radar and subsequent visual confirmation revealed a sizable group of Flankers inbound to rescue their factory.

"They'll probably try to save their factory over picking us off. Fuck, I hate to say this..."

"Help Venom out if we can?" Grimm then saved me my answer.

"Yeah, that." I grumbled as I armed the F-16's cannons.

"Don't sweat it, dude," Chopper reassured me, "Just think of it like they're gonna come crying to us!"

I smirked, as if five-and-a-half veterans of one-and-a-half wars would _need_ help. "I gue- Huh, heads up, targets in view. Let's work our way from the one in front, that'll slow up the others."

The Antonov transports weren't exactly easy to miss, despite the looming pillars of smoke and fire as well as our intimate conersations grabbing our attention. And perhaps it helped me concentrate a little more knowing that it would be Venom hollering for help from us, rather than the other way around.

But goddamn did their size make them hard to set alight with only cannon fire. My first salvo might as well have just signed my name with a goddamn marker across a wingspan I could have parked my own F-16 on top of.

"Barely scratched the thing. Good thing I got plenty-" I muttered, before a rather loud rumble cut me off.

As Chopper suddenly found out, all we had to do was find the sweet spot.

"Whoooo! Man, those are what I call fireworks!"

"What the- how'd you-" I quickly banked my F-16 around left, to notice that the plane Chopper and I had strafed was being consumed by flame - and spewing what actually did seem to look like fireworks from its rear. The surviving crew had already climbed out from the cockpit and were running away like ants from a flame.

"Of course, they're loaded with ammo!" Edge observed out loud, before I raced to the far end of the runway to start another run. My team mates whizzed by from below, their attempt at getting the one behind it not nearly as fruitful as ours.

"We have to hit them in the cargo bay," Edge added, "Lead your shots carefully if they're moving."

I could see the Flankers trying to mix in with Venom - no pun intended - as I lined up my cannon reticule with the second Antonov, trying to lurch its way around its burning lead.

And this time, I didn't miss. My own little explosion was barely a spark compared to the raging inferno around me, but this would be something I could personally savor.

"Oh no!"

At least for the few seconds before someone started screaming across my intercom.

"Edge, was that-" I hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that Edge was no longer the only female pilot stationed on the island until Edge herself pointed that out.

"No, it's one of Venom's team," she said almost casually. Almost as if she didn't care.

Then again, apathy could easily have been mixed up with envy. Chase Callender was a looker and goddamn if I didn't suddenly feel the desire to try to make sure that it didn't go to waste. I quickly pulled my plane up and out of the inferno and searched my radar for her.

"Wardog 1 to Husky, I'll get 'em offa you."

"Hey Kid, I don't blame you for wanting to score a date!" Chopper joked. "Hell, lemme tag along here!"

"I can't shake him!" came another of Chase's plea for help, one that clearly revealed how little she noticed my offer. "Where the heck are you guys!? Dee-Jay? Ecto!?"

Unfortunately for her, there was no better way to cockblock a knight-in-shining-armor-to-be than to have a missile fired at you. This I learned when I had finally pointed my F-16 in Chase's general direction only to have my vision go red from an incoming missile alert.

"Spotted your Flanker, hold 'em steady!" Chopper shouted above the missile lock warnings.

I dumped some flares in the general opposite direction of Chase's and instinctively dove toward the inferno.

"I'll do my best, but if you get hit by anything it's your own damn fault!" I replied in between labored breaths.

To which my helper laughed. "Hey, you're the one threading the needle, I'm just following!"

And follow he did - eerily well at that. There was enough space in between individual pillars of smoke that I could creep my plane around without suffocating its vents with soot and ash. That meant whoever was following me could easily get a lock on - as well as Chopper following him. Before long, my stalker had broken his pursuit, and I was free to resume my own rescue.

That was, if someone didn't already take my place while I was busy keeping my ass clean.

"This is Shadow, I'm on my way, Cha- I mean Husky!" Had I not known that was Shadow answering, I might have mistaken him for Sand Island's third female pilot.

Piercing my plane up and through a nearby cloud of smoke to escape the fray, I caught a fairly broad glimpse of what Venom were able to achieve in the few minutes. And although the parallels to my glimpse of the Yukes' destruction of Saint Hewlett were uncannily clear - I was a lot more envious than I was supposed to be angry.

"Chopper, splash one!" At least my own cockblock had been taken care of. "Kid, you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm above the smoke now." I jokingly muttered. "Looks like we're scoring that Husky some other time."

With my ass clean enough for the time being, it was time to get back to work. I pointed my F-16 toward the nearest patch of clear sky. Once out, I literally held my breath out of some instinctive reflex before pointing it back toward the traffic jam just off the runway. It wasn't that hard to spot - it was the pillar of smoke and gigantic transports furthest to the edge of the complex.

It also wasn't hard to spot a gap in the smoke where something got hit and wasn't burning.

"Hey Chopper, that Flanker you bagged punched a hole in that warehouse."

Chopper was especially impressed with his little stroke of luck.

"Heh. Wow, I'm surprised that it didn't explode like the rest of the place. Must've hit an empty one."

Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to have my suspicions checked. "Thunderhead, can you verify the contents of that red warehouse near the northeast side?"

"...appears to be mechanical parts of some sort in the facility. We'll have the ground crews retrieve them later."

"Spare parts, probably," Chopper said, and I could imagine him shrugging.

I put it out of my mind too. We probably hit the warehouse full of empty cartridges or shell casings, neither of which was particularly flammable unless they were magnesium coated. The only targets that I cared about setting alight were the planes up ahead.

But that wouldn't stop Genette from getting me to wonder what was really in that warehouse - especially since he'd been there himself.

* * *

**Albert Genette**  
**Somewhere SE of KHAZMASH (Khazevsk Manufacturing Plant), Sonza Oblast**  
**10 November 2010**

"So what got you to join the Osea Defense Forces?"

It was my second morning after arriving in Yuktobania for the second time, and I was on light dispatch duty, so to speak. My 'driver,' SFC Will Dempsey of the 5th Infantry Division was turning out to be quite a nice character, along with the other members of his fire team. His explanations almost seemed deliberately lighthearted with his Middle Osean drawl.

"I joined for college money," he replied bluntly. "And it's a bit of a family tradition, I s'pose. Didn't think I'd get sent to freaking Yuktobania and all though."

The conversation was actually a welcome distraction from the endless stretches of Sonza Oblast's arid environment. Though autumn did at least bring noticably cooler weather, it only seemed to make the endless stretches of expanse a little more numbing than painful - particularly since we hadn't encountered any "action" since I got here.

"I don't think any of us expected a war," I continued, "Not after the last 15 years."

"Then again, they did kill our sailors and try to assassinate our Prez." There was a sort of half-hearted frustration in his voice as he said that. "Hell I didn't wanna vote for him, but it's like they'd been planning for it all along."

"Looks like they didn't like the idea of peace with the enemy either-" Any chance at further political discussion was interrupted by the sight of what appeared to be the ruins of a town up ahead on the patrol route. "Hey, what happened over there?"

"That... used to be the factory where they invented the AK-47, s'what I heard," SFC Dempsey confidently explained as the Humvee approached the wreckage. "Word's goin' round that your Sand Island guys tore this place apart just a couple days ago."

He smiled a little as he mentioned the Wardogs' exploits. It was the smile of watching a hometown hero win a major sporting event.

"Really..." Mine was the reaction of someone who preferred a different sport than this, after finding out he knew about my article.

The widespread destruction of one of Yuktobania's most famous weapons factories was evident from the moment the first ruins slid into view. Only a few buildings had escaped without major structural damage, the facility's giant smokestacks cut down as if by a giant chainsaw. Yet there was a reason that the road that took us through this former facility was currently all clear.

"Yeah. Only this time there were ten of 'em. Freaking ten!" He held his hands out and spread his fingers for emphasis before returning them to the steering wheel. Of course, to me it looked like he was about to reveal something aptly timed. "Falcons 'n Raptors, s'what I heard."

Sure enough, as he put his hands down, my eyes suddenly widened as the Humvee took us through the center of the facility. It looked as if I shared the soldier's surprise that Venom had accompanied Wardog on this raid, but the truth was literally more down-to-earth, in the form of armored SUVs and operatives in different standard-issue uniforms.

Kronus International's contractors had cleared the road of debris and were appearing to be securing the area for whatever heavy equipment would either dismantle or reconstruct the sprawling facility.

"Cha' lookin' at?" Dempsey asked.

"Just more of the goings on..." I replied.

"Yeah, those contractors are all over the damn place now," he added as if reading my mind. "They get here quick! Can't get from base to the front lines without passing one of their convoys."

The metaphor was apt, it seemed, as one particular warehouse we approached in the far corner of the base was guarded by Kronus contractors with what looked like heavier armor - and several unusual-looking APCs. But what really got my attention wasn't their more expensive and higher-grade equipment than the glorified security guards around Hangar D.

"You know what they're doing out here?"

"Scrounging for secrets to give back to the OCIA 'ersumshit," Dempsey explained. "Probably rendering Yuke POWs too, s'why we haven't seen that many of them."

At the center of all the scrounging going on, a large Nordennavic-made Skaal tractor-trailer with grates over the windows pulled out what looked like several large crates very heavily secured under tarp from one of the surviving hangars.

My body was suddenly filled with the kind of dread that could only be attributed to deja vu as I pulled out the small pocket camera I had been given and started fiddling with the settings. I knew very well that what I was about to do would be a lot more sensitive than it looked outward.

I held the camera to the low corner of the window as we drove by, concealing it with my other arm as I turned my head to face Dempsey.

"How've the locals been treating you?" I asked, trying to keep his attention away from my shots as I pressed down on the shutter switch.

"Lookin' at me funny like a comm'nist looks at a democrat, but I ain't surprised," he continued.

The Humvee took a quick left at a nearby corner, my reflexes tugging the camera back toward myself. I held it close to my lap so Dempsey wouldn't catch it.

"You ever wonder what they think about this whole war, and why they started it?"

As it turned out, our current delivery run had gone off with a disturbing calm that even I was half-considering waiting for an attack to make things more interesting - at least up to now.

"If I could speak the language I would, but I figure they probably don't openly like us liberating them." Dempsey continued, "Probably got the KGB at their throats. And that's fine with me, the fewer they got shootin' back at us, the better."

Our Humvee had stopped at a nearby intersection to let the giant tractor trailer pass, after which we continued only to find the most direct route out blocked by the remains of a fallen smokestack. A Kronus "crossing guard" directed us to the left and an alternate path.

"T'be honest, I'd be happy to come home alive after we get those Politburo punks that tried to kill the Pres," Dempsey concluded with a sigh.

The route we were taking now ran opposite to the trailer's path, taking us out and across to the nearby runway. An unmarked L-100 transport - the civilian version of the army's C-130 - was already waiting on the tarmac by one of the ruined hangars with its rear bay door down, loading a much different kind of cargo. I raised the camera again, concealing it under one arm.

Kronus operatives appeared to be leading people onto that plane.

"Then what happens?" I asked, my tone laced with foreboding as I took shots of the convoy.

My finger seemed to jam down on the button as the Humvee finished crossing the runway, my gaze fixed on the personnel directing the shipment. One of the contractors monitoring the loading appeared to have a different colored uniform covering his upper body, under the body armor covering his chest and joints.

"If we make it outta this? After we win?" Dempsey replied with an eyebrow barely raised above his sunglasses. "College, of course. And maybe it'll inspire my little sis to do something with her life."

It looked like a gaudily-colored shirt underneath the kevlar rather than a uniform, the kind perhaps worn by a person representing what Pops had once referred to me as an OGA or "Other Government Agency."

"Just...uh...don't tell the newspaper I said that, okay? Bout my lil' sis that is."

"Sure, sure." I suddenly replied, before taking the camera and stuffing it back into my vest pocket.

I had to keep reminding myself that my suspicions of what was going on were still just suspicions until I had enough pieces of the puzzle to bridge the gap in my investigation chart, and Kronus finding their way into Yuktobania from Clavistan only filled in a small portion.

I swore to myself that I wouldn't be telling anyone about what I'd seen.

"Oh hey, that's where all the POWs went."

And I wasn't the only one who realized I would break that promise.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**13 November 2010**  
**1120 hrs.**

"Um...guys?"

I very nearly suffered my third case of mistaken identity this week when Genette poked his head into the rec room. The way he seemed so reluctant to just come in reminded me too much of Grimm. But our eyes were more focused on the camera he was holding.

"Hey, welcome back, buddy!" Chopper replied, clearly not suffering from that confusion, "How was the trip?"

"Did you catch some kinda KGB assassination or someshit?" I added with a smirk. The guy certainly seemed tense enough that he might as well have caught the Reds red-handed.

"Well, yeah. You guys wanna step out or something? I gotta show you something." Genette replied, gesturing us to follow him.

Chopper and I looked at each other, only slightly worried that he actually did catch a KGB assassination on film as we followed him out. Eventually he led us outside the building to a gap between the rec room building and another office before switching his small camera on and started pulling up the pictures on the display screen.

Chopper's eyes went wide with an almost entertained surprise as he quickly figured out where those pictures were taken.

"Whoa, that's the weapons factory?"

"Yeah, what's _left_. Look who they've got cleaning up the place now." Genette quickly zoomed in on one of the less blurry photos he'd taken.

"Hey, I know that logo," Chopper replied, as Genette zoomed in. "Those'r the same guys that hung out here after we got back from Saint Hewlett, right?"

I leaned my face in a little and squinted, hoping to see what he did there. I caught a glimpse of a logo on one of the trucks.

"Yeah. Kronus...ain't that some Zagorik mythology thing?" I asked. The name rang a bell, but the lagging effects of the G-forces had somehow forced old history lessons to my frontal lobes instead of current events.

"Yeah. The head god before Zeus and creator of the Titans. But these guys are definitely private military," Genette added, not skipping the beats like his heart was probably doing now. "They're an up-and-coming PMC based a couple hours out from Sudentor. And according to my research they got a no-bid contract to clean up after you guys. As it were."

I shrugged. "PMCs doing everything except shooting bad guys? Isn't that a step back for them after the Demon Lord?"

Fifteen years ago the Belkans obliterated so much of Ustio's air force that they resorted to hiring mercenaries to fight their battles out of desperation. And not one enlisted member of the aviation branch could say they hadn't heard of the flying ace that saved their country - and got filthy fucking rich in the process.

Belka's subsequent disarmament was the true dawn of the mercenary market though. Suddenly every country wanted to hire their talent to ensure they had an edge over their enemy. And them and the Eruseans realized they could also get filthy fucking rich doing what the governments didn't want to get their hands dirty.

"My research says this company's been contracted for pretty much everything that isn't frontline operation. Logistics, security, transportation..."

"...and..." I droned on, as Genette stopped on a photo that appeared to show people being led at gunpoint onto a plane.

"...even _rendition_."

"Whoa," Chopper replied. "Poor bastards."

Yet while they were was shocked, I simply harumphed. "...yeah, what else is new down there?"

"Dude," he replied with more suspicion than Genette as he leaned toward me. "A no-bid contract for just one company to do everything and...that... in one war is standard doctrine to you?"

Frankly, I didn't know why he was surprised.

Every continent had that one spot that was a great big free-for-all for mercs doing what the OCIA, KGB or their assorted enemies among the many tribal warlords didn't want to be seen doing.

Not six months went by when some video game got released that depicted some post-apocalyptic variant of the wilderness. Maybe it was set in Sotoa or Usea or some Yuktobanian border region, but the cast of characters was always the same. Crazed warlord, shady arms dealer, morally ambiguous spy, and the choose-your-morality protagonist to make you think you were actually genuinely doing something.

If you'd never had a stain on your record bigger than a parking ticket though, the only role open to you was "observer" and maybe "that guy in the air strike plane you couldn't fly."

So Albert's pics of private contractors doing this or that didn't surprise me one bit. It was only 15 years ago when the powers that were realized that they could actually legitimize that sort of thing to exercise their power by a proxy that wasn't governmental.

"Why the hell not? The government can afford it with all the money they've saved up," I grumbled with a smirk. "I bet that one of those goddamn rentacops is making more money than the three of us here combined." That little quip met with a slightly-less-than-friendly elbow in the shoulder from Chopper.

"So?" he then asked, holding his forehead in faux thought, "These guys can't even be held accountable for what they do and you're concerned about how much money they make?"

"That's exactly what I mean, bro," I snarled, my arms crossed. "We put our asses on the line, watch our friends die in front of us, and all we get is chickenscratch, a show-trial and a bad case of PTSD?"

"Naw, you can't really mean that!" Chopper was clearly getting agitated now. "You know all these people care about is their paycheck."

"You know what it's like growin' up where the only real money is illegal?" I pointed an accusing finger at Chopper. "1500 zollars a day for driving a truck? I could get my mom a new fucking house-"

"Oh, come on! I mean..." Chopper cut himself off after cutting me off, and sighed. "You know what happened a few years ago, when we sent PMCs to train the army in Clavistan?"

"Yeah, making sure they don't point the gun sideways when shooting at rebels," I replied, vaguely recalling the last time I actually paid attention to the news. "Too many fuckin' rap videos, then you get an AK for reals and suddenly you _gangsta_."

Genette had better recollection abilities than I did. "You mean the Atandah village incident. 30 civilians dead in what the Octavian Security contractors called an ambush."

"Exactly, dude!" Chopper confirmed, waving one hand in agreement. "None of those guys were ever prosecuted. They just waited in the Amm Plaza Hotel before the embassy shipped 'em out in the middle of the night."

"But Octavian closed up after that though, didn't they?" I then asked.

Trial by media usually did the trick of damning people or companies when a trial by jury or federal commission couldn't. Of course, PMCs never went out of business after getting shamed. They just changed their name or had themselves "bought out" by some new company that happened to share the same staff.

SSDD.

"Yeah, but I bet half of those mercs are with Kronus now," Chopper replied regretfully. "They can do whatever they want and we pay 'em for it. There's just no ethics there."

"The army's been doing that for decades, they just want someone else to blame, 'sall." I replied with my own hand wave. "Besides, Cap'n Freddy said he was gettin' hired by Kronus."

"No freaking way!" Now he was surprised in his disbelief more than angry. "The old Cap'n had a heart of gold!"

"Yeah, he was gonna tell me the benefits right before you called me back for that beer in Heier-"

My rant was interrupted by the sight of someone's shadow blocking the alleyway.

"Gentlemen?" he began, "I need to speak to Mr. Genette."

Some muscled Veiss City vacationer in kevlar, some kind of sabotage aviators, a tropical shirt under body armor and a nifty new PDW had decided to drop in on our conversation. I turned to face Genette only to find him disturbingly close to losing control of the contents of his lower bodily organs.

"Relax, I'll take care of this..." I said, before facing Mister 80s Throwback and giving my worst smile. "Problem, officer?"

"There'll be no problem if you let me talk to Albert here," he began.

"We don't want any trouble, sir," I continued, acting like the white friend.

"Then get outta my way and let me speak to him," he added, taking one step toward me. "Or I'll have the MPs help me."

I tilted to one side to notice that he had brought an MP as backup. Fortunately, rather than let my inner Las Violas gangsta rapper take control, I remembered that I had just come out of one trial and would rather not end up slipping into another.

"Oh, okay-" I began, but the moment I moved aside, Mister Tropical Shirt immediately sidestepped around me and was practically in Albert's face. That was when Chopper decided to get up in his face.

"That's not cool what you're doing, dude!" he began, only to find a rather hairy fist grabbing his evening dress uniform collar.

"Not nearly as cool as assaulting a government agent, pal, so don't start." came a reply, before he gave Chopper a rather mild shove back. The MP also moved into the alley, sealing our escape and forcing me to move back toward Chopper as Mr. Tropical Shirt made his move.

Soon as he grabbed the camera, his deceptively burly fingers quickly pried open the memory card slot and pinched the storage card. He then proceeded to put the camera down on top of a conveniently placed crate and introduce it to the butt of his PDW at 40 miles an hour before pocketing it.

"Hey man! What the fuck was that!" I shouted, the death crunch of $300 worth of camera causing me to wince.

Mr. Tropical Shirt clearly didn't give one. "I'm only gonna warn you once, Mr. Genette," he growled, pointing another burly finger between Genette's eyes, "Keep your nose out of things that don't concern you."

He then turned his finger toward us and continued, "That goes for the both of you, too."

Without another word, Mr. Tropical Shirt confiscated the twisted hunk of plastic that used to be a camera and left with his MP buddy.

"You just gonna stand here and let him do that, kid!?" Chopper seethed.

"We just came out of a goddamn trial, okay?" I pleaded angrily. "You wanna get us court martialed for real this time?"

"Oh man..." Genette looked like he'd had a heart attack, to which the two of us quickly ran to his sides to keep him from falling. "Oh no..."

"What's wrong, man?" Chopper asked.

Before he answered, he escaped our grasp and bolted out of the alley in the opposite direction, toward the crew quarters. That left the two of us standing in that alley, dumbfounded as fuck.

"...okay, did he actually catch a KGB assassination or someshit?!" I asked after a few seconds of awkward silence had passed.

"I don't like this, kid..." Chopper replied, "If he saw some crazy shit that got that OCIA guy after him..."

"Whatever it was," I concluded, "We're not dead, means they got it before we saw it too."

"Should we catch up with him?"

"Looks like those spooks got what they needed if they didn't detain him," I sighed, "They know they'll never hear the end of it if he gets rendered too. Let's get outta here."

"Ah...hell. Let's go..." Chopper sighed as the two of us started moving. "To be honest, I'm worried about you too, kid."

"S'bout what I said about the money?" I asked with a raised eyebrow, shielding my eyes from the sunlight with one hand.

"Yeah, I mean..." he took a deep breath, "Is this all what it means to you?"

I still hadn't fully bottled up from the last outburst. "I grew up in Las Violas, Chopper. Single mom 'n all. I didn't sign up to leave one warzone for another."

"I don't like how this warzone began either, kid." Chopper said worriedly. "But if all you're thinking about is what you're gonna get out of it, then that ain't a good sign."

"The military's about the only legit way outta the LVO apart from rapping," I replied, my smirk razor sharp. "But what I wanna know now is what _you_ want out of it? I heard what you said over the beachhead."

"Well..." Chopper shook his head and ran a hand through his cowlick. "I guess I gotta prove myself to the folks back home."

"Shit, I didn't know that?" The other side of my mouth caught up with my smirk, turning it into a smile. "Me too, I guess. I wanna be able to walk round there with my head held high that at least _one_ Las Violas boy made something of himself in something other'n movies or rap."

"Yeah, I guess I've got the opposite. Trying to prove myself to mom 'n dad," he replied, looking up at the sky as the two of us stopped before a road to let some Humvees pass. "They kept telling me that I'd never become something in life, so I joined up. Heh...never figured I'd end up in the paper like that."

"With your arm blocking my pretty face? Who'da thunk it," I added, to which we chuckled quietly for a brief moment before I was consumed by regret. "Oh man, now I regret dissing that reporter guy."

"Let's leave 'em alone for a bit," Chopper added as we crossed. "He'll take an apology better when he's not panicking."

I nodded in approval. For all I needed to apologize to him for, I was starting to wonder if it was simply a case of his newfound fame from making _us_ hometown heroes going to his head. There were more than a few wannabe journalists that ended up "discouraged" and/or dead from the siren song of the story to break all stories.

I guess I was starting to know that feeling myself, with all the responsibilities we took and were about to take. The kind we went to trial over.

But as for Albert, I still had no idea what he'd stumbled on that brought a spook to our base.

That, we'd find out much later.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Crew Quarters  
****14 November 2010  
****1121 hrs.**

"No, no...it can't be gone...not now!"

If I had reached a journalistic high during my short-lived investigation of Kronus Incorporated, then its consequences were my withdrawal.

I had booted my computer back up to find that it had been reformatted. Everything I had worked on that wasn't what the _Journal_ wanted was deleted. What was left - mainly the articles I'd already written had been transferred to a folder located in the middle of the desktop.

Most of the pictures and negatives I'd taken with my trusty old film camera were there. But anything and everything I wrote or captured about the private contractors had been erased or confiscated. Any mention of them in the draft article for Dempsey simply been deleted.

"Goddammit..." I muttered as I let myself slump onto the keyboard.

"What happened, Albert?"

By now I'd been over-surprised enough that the sound of Pops entering my room was a relief. That didn't mean I wanted to talk about what happened, especially since he had a look on his face like he knew and was disappointed in me over it.

"Nothing..." I groaned.

"Your computer doesn't look that way," Pops continued as he walked up beside me. "You look like you've been up all night, and I know that doesn't simply happen from 'nothing.'"

He was right. I had been up all night searching my computer folder by folder hoping that maybe I had a backup somewhere, but the Man in the Tropical Suit may as well have hit my computer with an electromagnetic pulse.

"I just don't want to talk about it."

"You don't have to. I heard about it from Chopper."

I groaned from my head tinging, as it recalled the exact sound my camera made when the Man In The Tropical Shirt had smashed it his Gründer MP7.

"Yeah, well...I didn't expect it to be so..."

"You shouldn't have let yourself get too engaged in your story," Pops followed up in a sort of stern, reassuring tone, "From my experience, people that get obsessed over something start to lose track of what's around them."

"...but what do I do now?"

"Pause and reflect, perhaps. This war's not going to end in a day." Pops replied, as he removed a small plastic object from one of his chest pockets and plugged it into one of my laptop's side ports. "Maybe you've focused so much on what's out there that you almost forgot what you have here."

I recognized the object as the thumb drive I was given as part of the _Journal's _care package. And the moment it installed I recognized every thumbnail of every single file I had been missing in all their blurry glory. I'd still lost the negatives and developed photographs of the contractors, but I was never more thankful to find any of what I'd lost at all.

"Holy- that's absolutely everything! How did you-"

"You left your computer on when you went to show my pilots what you found," he chuckled, "And I noticed that our _mutual friend_ returned to Sand Island ahead of you."

"Thank you! I can't..."

"We'll save it for later, along with _this._" Pops replied cheerily, pulling out the USB drive and causing all the windows I had opened to disappear. "In the meantime, Sergeant Dempsey will want his story."

"Aww man..."

"Don't fret over it," he added, putting a thickly-built hand on my shoulder, "Your articles will be safe from that spook long as they're with me."

I felt like a punished child forced to do his homework - and at the same time, realized that he got his nickname from exhibiting this sort of behavior to those under his wing.

"I just...I just feel like I'm writing propaganda with the Dempsey story."

"The best way to get a message to your audience is to help them relate," Pops explained. His tone seemed to get a lot more serious as he spoke, as if it was the kind of lesson he didn't like to teach. "Like your article on your roommates."

I quickly opened the article on the Wardogs, recalling exactly what it was about them that helped it become the most-read article on the _Journal_ that wasn't about Eleven-Four.

I didn't _want_ to make them heroes, and they certainly didn't choose to be. But I chose to write about them anyway, telling their story to the world from the relationships we developed. Maybe I didn't relate as much to Sergeant Dempsey, but that didn't mean his wasn't a story worth telling.

"...where are the Wardogs anyway?"

"Early morning sortie. That's all I know."

And perhaps, I needed that refinement - and more evidence - before I could reveal the greatest story of my career.

* * *

**Briefing Room**

**14 November 2010**  
**Five Hours Earlier**

_"Ahem, gentlemen."_

_"...Excuse me, Colonel. This is a very important mission to us. As the staff adviser sent from Central HQ, I'd like to explain it myself."_

The Very Important Officer - LTC Mitchell according to his nametags - wasn't lacking in enthusiasm. Or ambition, as was reflected in the mission he began explaining to us.

HQ's new effort to literally win the war by Christmas was put at its first serious risk from the Scinfaxi's long-lost sister megasub, the _Hrim_faxi. Her armaments also included cruise missiles that she could launch clear across both Anea _and_ the Verusean continents to strike at our forward operating bases - along with the other "goodies" that we'd experienced firsthand.

That the Yukes had still been prioritizing their military to compensate for their lack of nuclear capability was about as surprising as the fact that they could afford a plan B like this.

Operation Long Harpoon, so appropriately named, would be launched to destroy this other wwhale before the godless pinkos could ruin everyone else's Jesus season. The matter of finding this whale was already done for us.

Like every wwhale, the sub needed to "breathe." The MDF had detected a transport sub leaving a northern Yuktobanian dock to give that wwhale its oxygen. And once it surfaced, we would gore it through with PAVEWAYs and feed it to the horrorterrors underneath.

Even better, neither of us would have handicaps. We still didn't have the Arkbird because the specially-trained engineers they would send up to repair the thing had only docked today. At the same time, they wouldn't have anything more than their Freestyles and burst missiles to back them up.

Mano a mano, a David and Goliath winner take all for the heavyweight combat champion of the world.

This...was gonna be great.

"I want you to turn these icy straits into the Yuke's graveyard. Are there any questions?"

As it happened though, there was that one question.

"...yeah, why were we chosen instead of Venom again?"

LTC Mitchell smiled ambitiously, like I'd asked the question everyone else was too scared to ask.

"Apart from four of you being less conspicuous than six, your have demonstrated the teamwork and precision required to take on missions like these."

Translation: We had taken out the Scinfaxi, making us the only ones with relevant experience to handle her sister sub apart from 'Shadow' Madison.

There was also the matter of the map. I didn't have to be a master geographer to notice we were not only bypassing Yuktobania but the entire Verusean landmass altogether. The Hrimfaxi was hiding out on the other side of Anea, and our route would take us over its satellite-slash-safe-haven.

"Um...isn't that island part of Estovakia?" Grimm asked.

"Officially, yes. And both Emmeria and Estovakia are officially neutral." Mitchell continued, not missing a beat. "Unofficially, however, there are no active air defenses on Hvarci Island at the moment."

"Because they're too busy killing each other off to pay attention," I grumbled, almost intentionally out loud.

"In any case, the destruction of the Hrimfaxi will not only protect our ongoing offensive, but also allow the Emmerians to get a better view of how the Yukes are manipulating the civil war in Estovakia."

I didn't have to be a fan of some spy series to decipher Mitchell's lingo. They didn't want us stoking Estovakia's ongoing civil war more than the Yukes were already doing having their sub lingering near Estovakian waters, among other things.

In fact, we'd be doing the same shit we'd been doing since the first Revolutions against capitalism, backing our own factions against Yuktobania's preferred players. And since nobody really knew which 'Estovakian' faction held that island that day, it's not like they'd actually take time out from killing each other to notice.

SSDD times two.

"Time is of the essence, ladies and gentlemen," Perrault concluded as he switched off the briefing terminal and projector. "The fate of the world rests on your shoulders."

The way he enunciated that last phrase made me wonder when he was going to break into a rousing rendition of _God Bless Osea_. Either way, as the squadron leader I had to show some enthusiasm for the long flight.

As we got up and left, seemed I was the only one that was gonna do so.

"Oh man, the _Razgriz_ Straits. I wonder if we're gonna slay a real demon there," Chopper asked, almost like he was embarking on some adventure.

"We killed the last one, ain't nothing mystical about it," I replied, emphasizing the matter-of-fact.

"You think we're really gonna make it back?" Grimm asked as I withdrew my helmet. "It's just us against that thing."

I gazed at the old thing for a moment, wondering why I hadn't customized it yet. If I wasn't going to make it back, I would at least have to give it some racing stripes or faux-diamond glitter stickers.

"They ain't flying backup through Emmeria," I explained confidently. "So yeah. We're gonna make it back and our guys are gonna win this thing."

"Unless maybe killing it means we take its place!" Chopper came back with a wide-eyed reply so cliche it actually wasn't funny.

Or rather, as I gave Chopper a friendly jab of appreciation in his side, I didn't think it was funny because it was _true._

* * *

_**To Be Continued...**_


	18. When The Party's Over

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them._

* * *

**In A Blaze of Glory (Soldier)**  
**Chapter 8: When The Party's Over**

"_Teamwork is essential, it gives them other people to shoot at._"— Unknown

* * *

**KZRD-5 Las Violas Evening News**  
**15 November 2010  
5:30pm Broadcast**

It was only three months ago when the 5th Street Piroshky in Ellington was the talk of the town, receiving a "Best International Food" award from the Las Violas Times and customers from all walks of life. Today, however, Misha is placing plywood over his windows and sweeping up broken glass.

_"They smash my windows. They call me a terrorist, all kinds of names. But what did I do? How did I terrorize them? Why am I the enemy now?"_

Misha's restaurant is yet another victim of a wave of vandalism and other hate crimes plaguing the Yuktobanian immigrant community both in Las Violas and elsewhere in San Adrian since the outbreak of the conflict last September. The LVPD have reported a sharp spike in reported incidents following the deadly terrorist attacks last week.

_"We would like to make it clear that hate crimes of any kind are not tolerated under our jurisdiction, and that we are working with the community to apprehend and prosecute those responsible."_

But the increased police presence has only deepened suspicion in the Yuktobanian immigrant community. Although community leaders have repeatedly offered the 5th Street Piroshky and other businesses neighborhood watch and extra security, Misha has turned them all down.

_"These police and neighborhood watchmen are the same people that destroyed my restaurant. What if they demand protection money and still come back anyway? My mother cannot take the extra stress."_

Their suspicions seem to be justified by the arrest of a number of alleged vandals, one of whom was identified as a member of a neighborhood watch group in Eaglewood. But there are more out there, and Misha knows the business is not safe until the violence dies down.

For now, the 5th Street Piroshky will be closed until the windows can be replaced. While he has come to distrust the community that his family lived in for generations, he still has hope that things will improve.

_"As long as this war goes on, people will find a reason to hate my family. I hope it ends soon."_

Larissa Gomez, KZRD-5 in Ellington.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**15 November 2010**  
**2222 hrs.**

With no more assignments in my inbox for the time being, and nothing else to do until I received one, I decided to try finishing the assignment I was supposed to complete when I got here.

_"How did you meet Captain Bartlett?"_

That said, with my main subject still officially MIA, I decided to complete it by proxy.

The base was throwing a party to commemorate their squadrons' latest success, which would put almost everyone that knew him in an interviewing mood.

This included the base's top mechanic.

A records check showed that Pops and Bartlett had been part of an Osean squadron in an expeditionary force sent to bolster Ustio after its air force had been mostly destroyed by the Belkans. But they were also brought in about the same time that Ustio contracted an entire air division full of mercenaries - the Demon Lord included.

When his squadron suffered a high attrition rate at the hands of the Belkans it was folded into an "international air unit" along with a similarly-decimated Yuktobanian squadron. As the Yuktobanians made it a habit to keep an close eye on collaborative ventures with their rivals, they assigned a political officer to the unit that happened to be the same Spetsnaz major he would later have a fling with.

The rest, according to Pops, was history.

_"We were shot down and we bailed out behind enemy lines during the last war. We made it through the bullet-ridden battlefield and made it back to the allied front line. I tell you, it was tough getting the Army to believe we were on their side."_

Although the determination in his voice made it sound like he rehearsed that line, it was an answer I could believe. Another check revealed that Peter Beagle was a long-time veteran of the Air Force of Osea, and a veteran of the Osean-UEV coalition during the Verusean Gulf War in the late 80s.

_"Shot down? You two?"_

The notion that Pops could have gotten shot down before was difficult to believe. After all he had managed to weave a cargo plane out of Sand Island under a massive dogfight against Yuktobanian fighters that saw LTC Ford's transport as just another easy target. And from what I'd heard, Bartlett had only gone down because he'd swiped the tracking of a missile meant for Nagase.

For him to manage that under the most pressing of circumstances almost certainly indicated he was more skilled than he looked in his advanced age.

_"Hey, it was a long time ago,"_ he shrugged. _"Everybody makes mistakes, right?"_

_"Oh no, I didn't mean it that way...even if you're not flying with those pilots, your age and experience provide a lot of support for all of them. I just wanted to tell you that."_

Soon even I began to speak from whatever experience I had.

_"I've seen that you really listen to what they say, and you always have helpful suggestions for them."_

_"Well thank you."_

After all, I had been living with them for two months already. That made me a part of their family, with all the stories that came with it. Stories that wouldn't quite sway millions of readers, stories that wouldn't quite win awards.

_"I think they're going to need your help, now more than ever..."_

Stories still being written, and stories of being human.

_"Okay."_

And that was a curse as well as a blessing. They may have been the OADF's greatest weapon, but they were still human. Edge might have been able to keep her cool, but with Grimm accelerated up the ranks, Chopper feuding with other squadrons and Villa's acid tongue getting sharper by the day there was no telling how their unit cohesion would fare.

_"These people...It's like they're walking on a tightrope that could snap at any second. And they're going to reach their breaking point sooner or later."_

_"Yeah..."_ Pops' attention was suddenly diverted to the crowd, which had suddenly turned from celebratory to angry.

I quickly stopped the recording as the two of us got closer, where a circle had been formed around some kind of commotion in the middle. I couldn't see what was going on, so I was forced to raise the camera and angle the viewfinder so I could get a better view of the middle.

One of Venom's pilots - Donny Stryker or Ross Landry from the look of things - had been knocked to the ground, apparently by someone who was screaming at him.

"You say that to my face again, you little shit! Come on!" Chopper was raring for another shot as Blaze and Grimm tried to hold him back.

A pair of MPs had arrived to divide the crowd as another of Venom's pilots stepped up to try to drag Stryker to safety.

The story of how allied squadrons would come to blows at that point was one of the hardest to write. Yet as I found myself staring aghast at the scene, it wasn't that hard to figure out.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**Razgriz Straits**  
**122 mi. WSW of Hvarci Island, Estovakia**  
**14 November 2010**  
**0920 hrs.**

_"This is Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell, the advisor to HQ. That picket sub just sent an enemy-detection notice. The Hrimfaxi s gonna dive in one minute. Attack immediately!"_

My efforts to stay awake during the trip around Estovakia weren't helped by my F-16's inability to pick up Estovakian military radio or Chopper's attempts at stand-up. The anticipation of destroying a monster sub that could flick me and my team into oblivion with a single missile wasn't as intense the second time around.

_"Hey, our cover's blown anyway. I'm gonna start talking now!"_

Dropping to cherubs nine and following the glaciers to the giant bullseye on our radar didn't help either, even when the ice was moving relatively faster below my plane's underbelly.

_"You do that. Maybe they'll focus fire on you just so you don't clog their airwaves,"_ I joked.

Getting through the picket submarines deployed all around the Hrimfaxi s perimeter was no problem because they didn t shoot back. All four of us would have to be blind just to miss the single blip in the center of the ring that marked the Hrimfaxi.

I just hoped we would actually make it from the outer coating to the creamy center in time. Even if we were damn close to shattering an iceberg with a sonic boom, the picket subs orbited several miles from the target they protected.

_"30 seconds to Hrimfaxi dive!"_

_"Penguins hot!"_ I ordered, _"Steady as she goes!"_

To be completely honest, breaking radio silence above the icy straits of Estovakia was about the first genuinely exciting thing to happen during the whole trip.

_"Aye aye, cap'n!"_ Chopper echoed.

HQ had been a little more thoughtful when it came to our payload this time around, in the sense that they no longer had to worry about providing for support on either side.

Today our Falcons packed Penguin missiles designed by the eggheads from the Kingdom of Nordennavic. The small semi-island nation loved to proclaim that it was the Wellow of the East now that the Cold War was supposed to be over, but everyone also knew that they would still back the Crown over the Communists if push came to shove.

Same shit different day times three, but as long as it directly helped us I could let it slide.

My HMD beeped enthusiastically as the system drew a bead on the monster sub. All it needed now was my approval.

"Penguins out! Go go go!" I ordered, and with a push of the button a pair of anti-sea missiles joined the rest of the flock in a beeline to their designated mating grounds.

There was no way something so large could evade eight Penguin missiles. I just hoped the first barrage would actually affect it.

_"Boom, baby!"_ I clenched a fist in albeit premature victory as we buzzed the chorus of explosions erupting from the Hrimfaxi s bulk.

Or at least what remained of it above the surface, as it completed its dive to put out the sick fires we had caused.

_"Damage status on enemy sub unknown!"_ Nagase confirmed.

"No shit we didn't sink it," I muttered as I pulled up to circle its last known. "We didn't even get to play with its little friends yet. HQ, confirm damage status."

_"HQ to Wardog. Satellite monitoring indicates you damaged the Hrimfaxi's cruise missile ducts. They'll have to surface to launch their missiles, we'll keep you posted."_

"Fine by me, I've got plenty of fuel left," I snarled frustratingly.

The fact that we forced it to fight us face-to-face was good enough news that I didn't have to ask for the bad news.

"The Hrimfaxi's antenna has appeared above water. It's surfacing!"

The Hrimfaxi came back up to the surface swinging, launching a flock of armed UAVs and a burst missile for flavor. The drones quickly started spreading out though, their operators clearly not stupid enough to get them caught in the range of the missile they launched with.

_"Time your attacks to hit the Hrimfaxi as it surfaces. Sink it before it deals any more damage to our ground forces with its missiles!"_

"Break, break! What, no Freestyles?" I taunted, pulling my plane upward as we dispersed once again.

"They're lighter and more nimble than fighters. Captain, what do you recommend?" Edge queried.

Lighter, nimbler and much more disposable with much less guilt.

"Chopper and I will go for the sub. Edge, take Grimm and keep those UAVs off our asses. Switch roles if that thing tries to dive again."

"Good plan, kid!" Chopper concurred. "Let's do this!"

"Copy that, Captain. Switching to air-to-air missiles."

Plans being what they were, I had barely gotten the wwhale back into my sights before one of the drones got their sights on me. My reflexes kicked in right before the rest of the HMD went red, and I banked hard up and to the left to avoid an incoming Arrow.

"Motherfucking- They must've heard me?" As poor a joke as it was, I was fortunate my other squad members didn't hear it as I dumped countermeasures.

"I got this one captain!" Grimm shouted, my radar showing the drone sandwiched between the two of us but still hanging close.

"Just like old times," I replied, as I eased my Falcon back toward the ocean, "I'll keep 'er steady for you but don't take too long."

"Roger!" Grimm was almost as enthusiastic as Shadow was. "Easy now..."

If only his aim had caught up. A Sidewinder whizzed past my cockpit as the drone had barely gotten missile lock on me.

"Holy Jesus, what the hell was that!?" I shouted, leveling out and back into a climb again.

"Sorry, captain!" he pleaded. "Damn these drones are good..."

"No, you just suck..." I muttered, again with my intercom off as I approached the cloud bank. The drone kept close, matching me boost for boost.

Now it was time to see if he could match brake for brake.

A desperate spray of chain gun rounds flashed into view as I jammed the airbrake and pulled a corkscrew.

The moment the drone appeared from under my rapidly-rotating fuselage I sent some vulcan rounds of my own after it, clipping its wings good and tidy.

As it happened, Grimm had also followed it upward, and he also quickly overshot both me and what used to be several million rubles of advanced Yuktobanian unmanned combat technology.

"That's how you do it, Archer. Now where's that whale?"

I winced as I checked my radar. I could pick out the fast-moving drones, and my three teammates, but no Hrimfaxi to be found.

"Sonofabitch dived," I muttered before getting back on the horn. "How you guys holding up?"

"Got a hit or two in, kid," Chopper replied. "It's loaded with anti-aircraft defenses but I thinned 'em out good!"

"Good work. I'm switching you in for Archer when that thing comes back up for air."

"Burst missile impact in 10 seconds! Estimated impact range angels 2 through 5!"

"You know the drill folks," I sighed, pressing the Falcon toward the icy straits. "Hit the floor or the clouds and get ready to Foxtrot Sierra up when it shows its face again."

The flash of the first burst missile explosion I'd experienced in a few months didn't surprise me, not with Thunderhead's countdown timing it for me. The drones also used that opportunity to scatter as well, giving me a precious few seconds to check my radar with squinted eyes.

"Thar she blows," I announced to myself as a new blip showed up on the radar.

And, like clockwork, the circling drones funneled right back into the grand icy arena after me before I could even get a lock on the easiest target in the world.

"They're all coming right for you, Captain!" Edge shouted.

Suddenly it wasn't just my HMD lighting up. I could feel my cheeks tensing in a smile as I dumped flares and broke to my left to avoid another set of drone gunfire.

"Blaze, you've got several UAVs on your tail!" Grimm pleaded.

"Yeah, I think I can hear them just fine!" Or rather, my HUD frantically screaming that they had a missile lock. "New plan, the three of you light up the sub. I've got an idea."

"Captain, are you crazy!?" I was surprised that Grimm was still surprised.

"S'why I'm still alive, guys," I chuckled in the midst of another successful brake-and-barrel-roll drone kill. "Come on. Just keep that big w-whale busy while I take its babies for a ride."

After another few seconds of dodging bullets and wondering why i'd stuttered all of a sudden, someone finally worked up the courage to agree. Sort of. "You're not going to do it alone, Captain," Edge added.

"Just like last time," I said to myself. It wasn't like it was the first time for the both of us. Taking on a swarm of enemies at once, that is. The only difference was that we'd be dead in minutes if we punched out into these icy waters. "Just try not to kill too many of them, eh?"

_"Burst missile inbound! Impact range estimated below angels five!"_

My impromptu game of gazelle-and-lionesses took me directly over the Hrimfaxi, which was clearly as busy trying to keep the fires from spreading as they were trying to keep us from hitting it. Neither of which it was doing particularly well.

Not that any of it would matter if I wasn't around to see it.

"No hitting the floor? Fine by me." I chuckled darkly.

"Come on kid, climb!" Chopper was going to feel pretty bad if I died a hypocrite for bossing most of my team to climb the last time we took on a monster sub and its burst missiles.

_"9...8...7...6..."_

"Gimme a sec!" I shouted. Five seconds was about as long as I had before I did die a hypocrite.

I could barely hear the countdown over all the beeps and sirens emanating from my console. I pulled back on the flight stick and gunned the afterburners. The missile lock turned into an incoming missile alert as I pierced right into the burst missile's impact range.

"Almost there..." I could almost have sworn that a warhead had passed only a few feet over the canopy at a combined speed breaking the sound barrier.

_"5...4...3...impact now!"_

At that moment I thought my F-16 would be hurtled upward into space from the force of the explosion only a few hundred feet below me. With the explosion behind me, I watched the HUD clearing up, indicating a few hundred millions of rubles' more in experimental technology had been turned into molten confetti.

THe loud rumble also seemed to drown out every other piece of background noise other than that faint ringing in my ears that I could only hear in complete silence.

"Blaze!" Edge called out, "Are you okay?"

But the mere fact that I could still sense anything meant that I was still alive and fueled by the sheer thrill of karma being an angry pimp wanting his money from a customer that went a little too far.

"What? I can't hear you."

"What are you doing!? Attack you idiots! Are you just going to let them destroy our ground forces!?" Not that Commander Mitchell was gonna wait for his payday loan from the goddamn Moneytree.

I jammed the airbrakes and pulled up, letting the plane stall for my favorite maneuver. My organs reoriented themselves, my adrenal glands pumping like an oil spill.

"Edge...I'm just freaking peachy." I smiled, glaring down at my target beyond the familiar green glow of the HMD.

The faint jets of water spewing from the Hrimfaxi's side wasn't just some futile attempt at fire control. It was about to pull another dive, and I wasn't going to let it.

I set two of my three remaining Penguins to deploy at the same time, and the HMD began to glow faintly red with target locks: the Hrimfaxi's remaining anti-air batteries locking onto me, and my own missiles locking onto them.

Or maybe it was the red mist of exhilaration building in my eyes.

Same shit, different day, to the power of a motherfucking hypercube.

"Surprise, motherfucker!"

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**Later that Afternoon**

"Albert, you did a good job out there."

"Uh, thanks."

My regular check-in with the Journal had begun better than the last one. For one, my bureau chief was actually pleased. But his congratulations didn't feel as gratifying as it should have.

"No really, we mean it. Our unnamed soldier's story is boosting our subscription rates among Weazel News' favorite demographics."

I smiled softly and chuckled a bit as I looked out the rec room's window. Clouds had been gathering, mixing in with a sun about to set the sky on fire with twilight.

"Yeah, thanks I guess."

As much as I knew my last article was little more than propaganda, it was relieving to know our relatively cooler heads were quite possibly putting Weazel News' parent company on notice among their native audiences. At least we kept our policy of redacting names for the safety of our forces abroad.

"By the way, we got a little message yesterday from a Kronus International Security Company."

"Damn." I had almost forgotten how fast news travelled. I reflexively checked my desk for the USB flash drive that I d gotten along with the now-destroyed camera only to quickly remember that Pops still had it. "It's, uh...already been taken care of."

"Yeah, they told us as much. But Albert, for the sake of doing what it tells us we can't actually have you taking these unnecessary risks. We know you're trying to be investigative but-"

"Sure, okay," I sighed. "Look, I'm just worried about...some things I saw." I hesitated to describe as I also remembered that every line out of the base was monitored for obvious national security reasons.

"It's called losing your war virginity, Albert," my chief replied reassuringly. "You've made the leap from Travel & Lifestyle to International Correspondent in, what, two months now?"

Somehow, being reminded how far I'd come since I first arrived hadn't lost its surprise.

"Okay. I'll try to put it behind me."_ For now_, I reminded myself.

"Good, you do that. In the meantime the bureau's evaluating where we're standing right now, so we can schedule you for some R&R. You wanna come home for a bit?"

I let out a humored huff.

"Thanksgiving okay?"

"Sure thing. I'll get in contact with Hamilton and see if we can't get you a furlough for the weekend." he replied like a father rewarding his son for doing all his chores on time. "Thanksgiving and some Monday Night Football. Condors versus Prospectors in November City, you sure you don't wanna try your hand at sports reporting?"

I curled my lips in, forcing a smile. "Thanks, but I think I'll stick with the turkey."

"Heh. Don't worry about it then. But hey, who knows, maybe you'll be reporting from the steps of the Kremlin on Christmas Eve."

If my previous chuckle was sarcastic, the next one was almost genuine. The thought of actually covering the end of Yuktobanian socialism next to Jonas Stromberg was mouthwateringly tempting. And if my coverage didn't lead to a major journalism prize, I would almost certainly have a variety of international assignments served up to me on a silver platter.

It wasn't a half-bad way to get to the top from graduating with a community college journalism degree.

But the events I had witnessed at the destroyed AK factory would linger as the monkey on my back - or at least the monkey in the cage, as long as Pops still possessed the USB containing the evidence of my journey. I already had my doubts that I could take a Pulitzer with good conscience if it meant keeping something like this under the rug.

There was always an economic interest behind every major conflict, alongside the political and social ideologies.

But what happened when waging war became its own business? When companies thrived solely off the services exclusive to conflict zones?

"Anyway, Albert, I gotta go. The APOTOF is setting up for a major press conference right now and we're on call."

"Sure, talk to you soon," I replied after a moment's hesitation.

I remembered that the Wardogs had headed out to a "very important" mission that morning, and I could assume that its consequences were the reason for the Acting President Of The Osean Federation's press conference.

"Stay safe out there, Albert."

As I turned toward the crowd gathering by the rec room's TV set, I found myself hoping for the mission's success.

Journalism prizes and the safety of the pilots' well-being aside, my career depended on it.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**120 mi. W of Hvarci Island, Estovakia**  
**0932 hrs.**

For a submarine the size of a small aircraft carrier, I was hoping it would go out with a fairly big bang. Instead the Hrimfaxi simply drooped under the icy straits and seemed to poof out of existence like an 8-bit video game villain.

It looked a blindlingly insignificant end to a seemingly insurmountable obstacle for our march to the Kremlin, but as I gathered my squadron back into formation, I was pretty certain the magnitude of our operation wasn't lost on us.

"You guys..." I began, once the wreckage was firmly behind us on the horizon, "...you realize we've just destroyed both of Yuktobania's megasubs?"

The magnitude of the return trip's boredom wasn't lost on me either.

"I can't believe it either, dude!" Chopper concurred. "They're gonna think twice if they've got a third one laying around!"

"I just hope it means this war will be over soon," Edge added solemnly. "Now that we're once again on even terms."

"Heh...damn. Now I can't believe it." I muttered. "You know...you don't sound so happy about it."

Saying that _I_ was happy about what just happened was an understatement. I felt like San Rafael's backup quarterback getting a chance to shine during the playoffs and leading my team straight to the Mega Bowl.

"It's just that it doesn't feel right."

This wasn't just a dream anymore. We were the heroes. It was us. We were on a roll and the hell if anything was going to stop it. And I was happy enough that I could deal with Edge's idealism a little better.

"Edge, we just stopped a bunch of terrorists, cleared our names and sank two freaking monster subs in a month and a half." I explained as best I could. "We're winning a war we should've fought 50 years ago."

"But we still don't even know why they attacked in the first place," she countered, not skipping a beat.

She had a point. Whatever intel we had showed that the Yukes' initial strikes were part of a limited-strike policy designed to neuter our ability to strike back. The so-called disarmament of the past few years meant that was all they had left to try to beat our mutual rivalry over proxy-policing unruly satellite states.

Whatever reason they came up with to execute that policy, knowing full well that we would retaliate with full force if it failed, was clearly beyond their soldiers' pay grade.

Not that they weren't deserving enough to pay that price after what they did to us, and everyone else in their way.

"We'll find out when we get to the Kremlin, Edge," I replied confidently. "I'm sure that backstabbing prime minister of theirs will be singing like a goddamn canary."

An Estovakian island slid into view below us, its peak barely sticking out above glaciers like the heads of the eternally damned where hell really had frozen over.

Somewhere down there, the damned were trying to put each other out of their misery as if torment on earth were somehow better than torment in whatever hell they believed in. The abandoned trying to find some hope.

And the knowledge that the four of us were the new lords of the inferno was, well, perversely gratifying.

"There's gotta be more than even he knows, too." Edge concluded.

Gratifying and corrupting.

* * *

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**Rec Room**  
**15 November 2010**  
**2221 hrs.**

"And I was like, motherfucker trying to style on _my_ pretty ass? I pulled a motherfucking barrel roll and scared the piss out of whoever was controlling that POS."

Okay, so it wasn't exactly the Mega Bowl victory party. But since our little hit-and-run was conducted far enough under the radar that we weren't even going to get a Bronze Star for our trouble, this had to suffice. Everyone that wasn't supposed to be on guard duty was invited.

"You thought that scared the piss out of 'em, Ricky? You should have seen us deal with this squadron of Yuke _'aces'_ that tried to ambush us after we hit some T-90s the other day. I swear we're still ironing Shadow's piss out of the cockpit."

Even Vincent "Scorpion" Ramirez was eager to join in the banter. Shadow hadn't shown up, either because he knew he couldn't handle the banter or because it was past his bedtime.

"Hah! Talk about a million dollar stain," I laughed. "Oh man, I'm sure happy my little Grimm's growing up so fast."

Someone else on Venom Team was sure acting like it was though.

"Yeah, feels real nice babysitting from your fucking point of view." came a snide, emotionless voice from the side of the crowd.

The two of us turned to find Venom's #4 "D-J" Stryker sulking in a corner, shades pristine like it was still the 1970s and probably hiding eyes turning red as fuck from whatever he had consumed.

"Hey, DJ, you're drunk," squadmate Jacob "Ecto" Englebert called out. "Calm your tits, man."

Rather than calm his aforementioned tits, Ecto's comments only egged DJ further. He got up from the corner where he sat and got in closer. "Naw, naw. You think you're such hot shit out there, while we're doing all the hard work?"

Their motormouth's advance toward the center of the crowd was met by Chopper, who clearly dwarfed the scraggly-lookng DJ. "Hey, buddy, we're just trying to have a little fun here, okay?"

"Yeah, greasebag, have your fun. You and your goddamn ice queen and that fucking_ vato_ think you're all hot shit because you just got famous now."

"Hey. DJ. You wanna start something, huh?" Chopper moved closer, not fazed by DJ's remarks. "We can take this outside right now."

I had to admire Chopper for trying to defend the squad's honor, so I moved beside him, keeping an eye and a matching raised eyebrow on his counterpart.

"Chopper, just chill. Let him roll like he does." That probably helped considering what transpired about 20 seconds after I did.

"DJ. Shut the fuck up and get back here, okay?" Scorpion ordered, pointing at him in the most paternal fashion possible. "You can pull your shit as much as you want after the party's over."

"Fine." Stryker hissed, putting his hands up and starting to turn but retracting that decision only seconds later, "Someday someone's gonna shut you up-"

Stryker's attempt to threateningly point and poke Chopper's torso was met by a fist square to the jaw.

Five minutes later I was sitting outside a vacated briefing room next to Edge and Grimm, the ambience of pop-EDM switched out with the muffled sounds of the FFIC and Hamilton giving Chopper and DJ more than a good talking to.

The relative silence was deafening. I found myself sweating more bullets than I did the _first_ time I encountered a Yuktobanian monster sub, staring at the thin line where the wall met the linoleum.

"You think he's doing all right in there?" It took about that long trying to decipher whatever was being said on the opposite side of that wall before Grimm timidly broke the silence.

"Better be," I muttered, staring at the wallpaper on the opposite side of the hall as if I were willing it to crack. "Everyone saw that little fucker run his mouth."

Speaking of that little fucker, the words had barely come out of her mouth when Stryker suddenly left the room, walking right past us without another word. Not that he could with the bag of ice he was pressing to his jaw. And the hell if I could tell if his eyes were teary from getting socked in the face behind his miraculously-intact aviators.

We kept stone-dead silent until we could hear the door close behind him as he crossed past the end of the hall.

"Fame is getting to our heads," Edge began, breaking the ice with absolute-zero-cold wisdom and a slightly accusing look in my direction. "Things are gonna get tougher from now on."

I knew she wasn't just talking about our upcoming assignments. Sure, the closer we got to Cinigrad, the harder the Reds would fight, and that would put even more pressure on us.

But with the exception of "DJ" Stryker and possibly Edge, we were still new to this whole concept of nation-defining conflict. And we were slowly proving ourselves unable to handle the pressure.

It was that lack of ability that showed on Chopper's face as he was escorted out of the room by two MPs. The inability to do something about that inability showed up on my face as I reflexively got out of my chair to try to talk to him only to be stopped by an arm - Edge's.

"I'll talk to him," Edge replied, giving me a quietly determined glance before getting up. "Don't worry about it."

"But is he gonna be-" I began, before being interrupted again by Hamilton, who stepped out of the room after them.

"Chopper's gonna spend the night in the brig," Hamilton explained as Edge went off after Chopper without another word. "What we do afterward is up to Ramirez and Stryker."

"Fuck." The harried expletive came out of my mouth about the same time I landed back in my chair.

"I wouldn't expect him to get off scot-free, but if it helps, I doubt they'll be too harsh," he continued, leaning on the doorway with his arms crossed. "It didn't look like it, but Stryker's in as much trouble with Ramirez as he is with us."

"Goddamn." I sighed, burying my face in my hands. "It's all happening so fast."

"Don't worry. It's not the end," Hamilton reassured me, patting me on the shoulder. Almost like a master consoling a good dog that disappointed him. "In any case, I'm going to take care of the paperwork, you get some shuteye," he added, before walking off in the opposite direction.

And just like that, it was just Grimm and I in the building.

"You think this is gonna be the end of us?" Grimm asked, leaning forward so I could hear him over the sound of my distressed breathing.

"We'll be fine," I replied half-heartedly, leaning back and slinging one arm around his shoulder. "We proved ourselves. They can't get rid of us on just one impulse."

"Oh man..." he added, "I hope not."

I expected him to sound almost whiny when he replied.

I just wasn't expecting him to lean into it.

"Shi- I...yeah. I hope not." I sputtered.

I didn't need a mirror to confirm that my face feel my face was going flush as fuck. Putting my hand over his shoulder wasn't meant to be anything more than platonic. And the hell if I wanted to get in trouble with the official policy that dealt with what happened when that gesture turned out to be more than platonic.

Edge was right. This war was getting to my head.

And if every heavyweight championship in the casinos of Las Venturas served me right, that was the right moment for a one-two punch.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**16 November 2010**  
**1028 hrs.**

I didn't expect the party to take the violent turn that it did, and before I knew it I had been escorted back to the room I shared with Chopper. It was hard enough trying to get to bed on the top bunk given the chance that my roommate might come back from the brig before I woke up the next morning.

But the next morning my smartphone accidentally served as my alarm clock when I got a call from my editor. Like the pilots I hadn't taken any drinks at last night's celebration, but I felt like I was hung over as I answered it.

"Albert, good news!" My bureau chief had begun his call by skipping the greeting, which could only mean that something was up.

"...what?" I asked, rolling over groggily.

"You're not gonna believe this, those contractors want to make it up to you for what happened."

I raised an eyebrow. I was surprised they actually felt remorse for something I'm sure they could have justified as routine.

"Oh, really now," I yawned.

"Yeah. They rang us up this morning. Apparently they want to make sure that they're not looked at the wrong way simply because of their contracts."

At least my bureau chief sounded like he agreed with my sentiment about their work with certain Other Government Agencies. Kronus' billion-zollar contract had to include some kind of accountability clause, but that would mean little more than "no comment" if I worded my questions wrong.

"They can't just make a press release?" I asked. Had I been more awake I would have figured they could save themselves quite a bit of trouble by not bringing an investigative reporter to their headquarters.

"You know I asked them the same damn question. But they figured that now that they got you on file-"

"...they did their research and asked me to give them their hero moment, sure." I sighed. It didn't help my confidence as a reporter knowing that my supposed rivals had better research libraries than declassified records and internet search engines.

"You catch on quick. Look on the bright side though, you're not gonna go to Yuktobania."

I chuffed. That made sense though, a tour there would probably be a little too guided. "So where do they want me instead?"

"...My guess is either at their HQ in Cascadia or down south in Savannah. They've got a training facility in Pine Grove near where the President crashed, don'tcha know."

A small bell rang in the back of my head, a connection being made that I couldn't quite recognize for having just woken up. I needed to be sure this wasn't just coincidence, so I decided to press just a little more forward.

"So...what exactly is going to happen?" I asked.

"Same as last time. You give us the go-ahead and we'll have them make the call."

On the other hand, I didn't want to take the risk that they'd made that connection before I did, assuming that their Man in the Tropical Shirt also had a copy of my data. And they knew they'd do their best to give something as close to a standard press release as possible, with me putting a human face on everything for the papers.

"Um...I need to think about this. Can you get back to me?"

"No problem, just get back to me if you want this one. Remember, you'll also be representing our readers. You'll want this to be as good as if not better than the Wardogs and our friend the unnamed soldier."

"Sure. Got it."

"And I know I'm sounding like I'm going back on my word with this, but if you do take this then just try to avoid asking the kind of questions they're not going to comment on. I know you want to be investigative and all, but-"

"Yeah. Okay." I was still that much asleep that I wasn't entirely sure what I was agreeing to. "Talk to you later."

"All right then, talk to you later Albert. Bye."

Ultimately, I decided that their holding my data would mean they'd expect me to be on a tight leash anyway. If the article got me labeled a 'sellout,' it would work to my advantage as my cooperation was likely to get the heat off from them too.

As I rolled over, unable to sleep for Chopper not being present in the bunk opposite as well as my resolve to get deeper into Kronus' involvement, I didn't know what I had to lose.

* * *

**1LT Ricardo Villa**

**52 mi. ESE of Poryv, Glubina Oblast**  
**17 November 2010**  
**1722 hrs.**

_"Sea Goblin Evac to Wardog. Fighting has broken out in the camp, do you have control over the airspace?"_

Jail had become a recurring theme for me over the past few weeks.

First I'd been threatened with imprisonment, then Chopper spent the night in the brig for some needless escalation. Now, fortunately, we found ourselves on the right side of the metaphor.

_"Affirmative Sea Goblin Evac, we have mastered the fog."_

That afternoon our flock of Fighting Falcons attacked a gulag. That and they were forced to put Chopper on temporary probation with all remaining manpower still needed for our campaign to reach Cinigrad by Christmas.

_"Good copy, Wardog. Looks like our taxi's here."_

Just because our rampage across the Motherland had been so successful didn't mean that the Yukes lost every battle. While we were off destroying the AK's original birthplace a fleet of Red Army tanks battalion had managed to circle a village we had just captured, and round up everyone to send to the gulag we were about to liberate.

Fortunately for us, the Yukes had this little habit of placing gulags in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. That was supposed to ensure that nobody could run away, but thanks to the miracle of satellite photography it also meant that a bunch of marines could walk right in and secure the place without giving the Yukes much time to bring the rest of the Red Horde down on their asses.

With that said, all we needed to do was make sure the Marines and the prisoners got their ride out before "much time" elapsed.

_"The ground's still crawling with weapons installations though, so they can't land. Could you clear them out for us?"_

For three of us, the mission was business. And Chopper had gotten over his night in the brig with the quiet respect of everyone apparently waiting to see Stryker shut the fuck up for once.

"Affirmative Evac Team, we'll be rolling in hot from the Southwest in 30."

For Edge, well, it was pretty personal.

_"I see the POW camp. The man I must-"_ The hesitation was sentimental, to say the least. _"...the people we must help are in there."_

After all, we did all hope that Captain Jack Bartlett was among those prisoners. Heartbreak One, last seen about to be fished out of the ocean by the goddamn KGB and hopefully not festering in one of their own little blacksites.

The same Heartbreak One that took a missile for her.

_"We have to suppress the anti-aircraft fire first."_

Clearing out the skies above the camp was not a problem despite the weather. The Yukes hadn't exactly brought out their newest models for the occasion, which made it easy for us to not waste the AMRAAMs we had brought along with the usual ground-pounding loadouts.

"Sea Goblin 1-1, I have visual on the camp, and I have you on radar."

As the Valkyries rode over the horizon on cue, it was now our job to make sure that our troops got the cavalry they deserved.

The force was formidable enough. Blackhawk gunships escorting Chinooks had a pretty good chance of clearing out a gulag's cache of prisoners, backed up with our loadout of Mavericks for insurance. All that said, the laundry list of targets on my HMD laid our job out for us as I buzzed the camp's watch towers.

"Edge, take Chopper and roll out Sea Goblin's red carpet," I barked as my Falcon easily dodged panicked AK and ZSU gunfire. "Archer and I will mop up around the camp."

"Aye aye, cap'n!" came Chopper's always-enthusiastic reply as his and Edge's Falcons rocketed past.

There was something off about the distinct _lack_ of sarcasm in his voice. That was when I figured, what the hell, I needed to get the other night off my head.

"...you're not still angry at us, are you?" I asked, as I turned around to connect the watch tower dots with my vulcan cannon. "Look, I'm sorry about-"

"Pfft. Not at_ you_. You're fine," Chopper replied, probably with a shrug. "Look, I'll talk to you in a bit."

I smirked, both from the half-satisfaction of a possible reconciliation as well as the actual satisfaction from the destruction of two watch towers and a ZSU that was looking the other way on the way out of the attack run. "All right. Grimm, how you holding up?"

"Thanks, Captain! That AA gun nicked me but all systems are still normal!"

"You need any help there?" We'd cut a fair swath through the camp but we'd also drawn their fire. I gunned it toward the mountains before turning around to align for another run.

"I'm trying to get a bead on the targets but I'm afraid of hitting the POWs!"

I would have facepalmed had I not had both hands busy arming Mavericks. "I swear to God if you kill Bartlett...just follow me and don't hit the big buildings." I cut myself off before finishing a joke that probably would have triggered Edge, if only because I had to change my flight path due to the fire from another ZSU that was especially persistent.

I circled around to line up the other pair of watch towers with a small convoy of Gecko missile carriers on the other side. Beyond those, Edge and Chopper were bringing in the cavalry.

"Stay low and get your countermeasures ready...now!" I could practically hear Grimm trembling on the other side of the intercom as we blitzed a path straight through the camp's opposite corners. The lead gunship was actually there to greet us on our way out.

_"This is Sea Goblin 1-1. We're going to sweep the south end of Building B with gatling fire."_

"Roger that gunship, we've taken care of the snipers," I confirmed, sweeping around right after having finished my attack run with Grimm. "Looks like the LZ is clear."

_"Those POWs will be free in a few minutes."_ Grimm responded, hope finally seeping out of his rookie tension as he banked around left to see if we missed anything.

_"Wait till they're back at their old jobs being overworked like us. I'll bet they'll wanna get back in that camp." _Chopper replied.

"You're saying that after SERE, good buddy?" I added back as I moved outward to mop up whatever was left behind. "And that shit was just simulated."

"Heh. You're right on that one." Shit, now I could tell things were looking up. At least from the way he didn't take my comment with sarcasm. "Wardog 1 to Team, let Sea Goblin complete evac, fan out and mop up for stragglers."

_"Okay, thanks for taking out the trash. We're taking the POWs outside, can you see their smiling faces?"_

Finding nothing of interest out in the near perimeter other than the smoking remains of several ZSUs, it was the only image I could think of to pass the time. It was cathartic knowing we'd exacted sweet vengeance on the folks that had given me the image of the faces of charred corpses by a burning ferry.

_"Those people, I wish I could see their faces from up here."_

"Well shit, I got nothing out here, you wanna go see?" I asked, figuring that if Bartlett was down there he'd really appreciate a flyby from his nuggets. Of course, I was still circling the Falcon in an outward spiral looking for something to dump the rest of my ammunition into.

_"Heh, she's actually going down there to look."_

_"Sea Goblin 2-1 reporting, looks like we've got everybody in."_

_"2-2 to 2-1, everyone's accounted for here too, we're dusting off."_

And it was about time too. My Falcon was already skirting across the outer edge of another Yuktobanian winter storm.

"Okay team, CAP's over. Return to formation above Sea Goblin and let's head home," was my casual order as the storm made it to the camp ahead of me, my HMD and altitude indicators helping me find my way through the fog.

_"Wardog 2 to Sea Goblin 2, is Captain Bartlett there? Check for a Captain Bartlett."_

_"...This is 2-2...hmm, nobody named Bartlett here. What about you, 2-1?"_

_"2-1 to Edge, none here. None of the POWs ever heard of him either."_

_"But that can't- look, just check for me one more time?"_

So maybe Captain Bartlett wasn't there after all. It was disappointing, but then again it wasn't the only gulag in the entire damn Yuktobanian prison camp system. Still, after all the shit we'd been through in the last couple of weeks, things were still turning out better than expected. We'd manage to keep the war effort going, and at the same time keep team cohesion intact. I figured the only thing left to do now was head back to Sand Island and get some semblance of rest before we did it all again.

"There's plenty of other camps in this hellhole, Edge, we'll find- fuck!"

That was immediately before I had to deal with a SAM bunker that flickered onto my HMD in the chaos and fire a missile that locked onto Edge's exhaust.

_"Ah- dammit, Nagase!"_

"Flares out, Edge! Come on!" I barely had a bead on where she was with the storm picking up.

The SAM bunker vanished in a cloud of fire and ice as Sea Goblin's gunship swept it on the way out.

_"After all the Captain said to me, I-_

I didn't know if she meant me or Bartlett at the very moment that the blue icon that marked her plane on my HMD disappeared from my radar. That didn't make it any less my fault for my sin of omission.

_"You all right!?"_

_"I'm fine. My plane's trashed but those are always replaceable."_

"Jesus fuck, anyone got her last known!?" were the first words out of my mouth as I pulled up in some stupidly vain attempt to get a better view of where she could have landed.

_"Sea Goblin 2-1 to 1-1. We're taking our guests home now, can you guys rescue her?"_

_"Roger. We got plenty of extra room but weather conditions are getting worse. We'd better step on it."_

I turned my head to locate the gunship and pointed my Falcon in its general direction when I found it hovering some distance off.

_"Landing point confirmed. Moving in for extraction."_

I grasped the dogtags nestled under my G-suit like they were a lucky charm and hoped that religion hadn't left me as quickly as it found me so many times before.

_"Windspeed is increasing. Watch for the trees."_

_"Shit, tail rotor just clipped the trees, we can't-"_

I tapped my radar. Then I slammed my hand into my helmet, hoping my HMD wasn't suddenly malfunctioning.

There was no way the rescue helicopter could've crashed.

_"Sea Goblin 1-1 has disappeared from radar. Repeat, gunship down."_

And just like that, it was over. For the next few moments, everything felt as hazy as the winter storm that had just moved in.

_"Dammit, the storm's too strong."_

_"We can't just leave her behind."_

_"Look, I hate it too but we have to wait for conditions to get better before we can do anything!"_ I should have known things had gone completely FUBAR when Grimm was the most mature member of the team. At least the most mature of its now-survivors.

_"Dammit, is there nothing we can do!?"_

"I...I..." There was no triumph shattered into failure, no happiness shattered into sadness. I couldn't even feel the rage against the communist military machine that I had for most of the war. There wasn't even any survivor's was only silence and fear.

Like I was the backup quarterback of San Rafael getting a chance to shine during the playoffs, leading his team straight to the Mega Bowl, and missing the comeback of the goddamn millennium by five fucking yards.

This was my fault.

* * *

**Sand Island AFB, Osea**  
**Later That Night**

If I had ever voiced the idea of the trip back from Estovakia as the longest stretch of soul-crushing air travel boredom in my entire life, I would have taken it all back with the return trip from the middle of Yuktobanian buttfuck nowhere.

None of us had said anything on the way back apart from the usual landing protocol. If they did, I either had the comms channel off or wasn't listening. It was bad enough that I automatically assumed that the only things they could have said would have accused me of failing my team. It was even worse that my chances of reconciling with Chopper had gone down with her.

That made it perfectly appropriate for us to have landed back at Sand Island under pouring rain.

Perrault ordered SAR for Edge and Sea Goblin 1-1 when conditions improved, and postponed Chopper's punishment for decking D-J Stryker until the mission was over. If we could believe the weatherman for once, we'd be flying out as early the next morning. And if _I_ could believe him, he was actually making his first effort to sound sincere. At least if the squad's promotions to Captain - and Grimm finally out of enlisted rank - meant anything for that.

As for me, I needed to clear my head. The gym wasn't going to cut it, Grimm had already gone to bed, and the hell if I was gonna try one more time to reconcile with Chopper with him having his extra-special venting playlist blaring in my head.

Instead I headed to the rec room looking to shoot a private rack.

Lo and behold, Vinny "Scorpion" Ramirez had the pool table racked up and ready to play.

"Hey..." I began, with almost no enthusiasm left in my body, let alone my voice.

"Ricky. Buddy. You wanna shoot some?" For someone who was supposed to be some kind of straight-up tough-guy from the Alderney barrio, Scorpion was sounding like a college graduate that left it. But I didn't mind.

"Sure, why not," I shrugged. "You wanna break?"

"Okay," Scorpion replied, matching the shrug and bending to break while I pulled a cue off the wall and chalked it up.

The conversation continued as the cue ball scattered the other 15 across the table, beginning with the obvious starting topic.

"Sorry 'bout your teammate there," he replied, after the first break pocketed the 7.

"She'll be fine, she can take care of herself down there," I shrugged as Scorpion took aim. _Yeah, they're probably 'enjoying' her with a side of fucking vodka._

"Yeah, ice queen in her element," he added before shooting, and raising his hand when he recognized his barb. "Sorry."

"Hell, I'm sorry about the party," I replied, shaking my head even as he got the 1 in the corner pocket. "Should've kept my motormouth on a tighter leash."

"Don't worry 'bout it. You should've heard DJ run his mouth while Shadow was runnin' his bladder the other day. I swear if he opens his mouth about some Kamata or Terrazi rice rocket again-"

My mouth shot into a toothy grin as I chuckled darkly. "And I thought _my_ motormouth was bad."

"In any case, we talked him outta pressing charges. Your guy's probably gonna be doin' KP duty tops for the rest of the- _damn_." His streak ended when he couldn't put the 2 in the side.

"What's been up with you anyway?" I asked as I chalked up the cue.

"Heh, trying to keep up with _you_," he responded, with a quietly snarky respect as he let me aim for the 11. "Saving the country from terrorists and taking out your second monster sub? You gotta have Mark 82s for _cojones_."

"Hey, you guys fucking _totaled_ that weapons factory," I countered, taking my turn to knock the 11 out the corner. "They got you leading from the front every other day."

"Still haven't got my own personal photographer yet though," he bemoaned sarcastically. "Oh right, the bossman says they thought _you guys_ caused all that shit the other week?"

I felt a slight tingle in my spine recalling the tribunal. If a weapons factory, a Yuke megasub, and Thunderhead's black box couldn't at least calm their suspicion, I didn't have a goddamn clue what could.

"Yeah, that's why we were all the way out in Oured that day," I sighed. "Fucking bureaucrats wanted to lay it out on us but hell, we were 30 miles out." 14 to the side, clipping the corner but ending up close. "Hamilton had to play Thunderhead's black box for everyone. Just can t please the man."

"I know what you mean," Vinny replied, before trying for the 6 in the side and missing. "Back when I flew with the Fighting Wasps in '95 we socked it to the damn krauts on a daily basis."

"Now I get why they never stopped talking about you at the Academy," I replied, finally getting the 10 where it was supposed to go. "Oh man, those were the good old days, weren't it."

"Well it was fun while it lasted." he chuckled grimly, nailing 3 in the side. "But after the nukes, bunch'a my own wingmen went No Boundaries and it was like the AFO couldn't tell the good ones from the traitors."

The fact that Scorpion had actually confirmed my suspicions about returning soldiers probably killed me a little bit inside. Then again I was also pretty damn numb from all that action to notice. "And you still stuck around anyway?"

"Yeah. Even though everyone was looking at us like we were the damn villains thanks to those mother-..." he grumbled, breaking the 6 off against the wall with some angry spin right where he would have finished that word. "In any case, yeah, I stuck 'round. Figured they were still gonna need us when those Yukes came knocking."

"And hopefully they'll be damn grateful for not throwin' us away this time," I concurred. "S'why we're flyin out to rescue her and Sea Goblin soon as the weather clears."

"Yeah well," he sighed, "Good luck on that one."

I raised an eyebrow before recoiling the stick for another go at the 14. "S'that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin' man. But you know those Yukes'll wanna get their hands on her," Scorpion waved it off. "They ain't gonna take the loss of their prisoners too good."

"Ah, you're right. But yeah, what did you do these past 15 years?" The cue ball twirled like a goddamn Cinigrad Philharmonic ballerina as it sent the 14 lurching successfully toward the near corner.

"Patrols. And a bit of consulting. Teaching other countries' pilots how to fly."

"Like what those Belkan contractors are doing." The 12 ball was a stubborn bastard, bouncing against the corner walls before stopping a half-inch from tipping over.

"Chrono, right?." Scorpion replied, before taking the cue and going for the 4.

"Kro-nus," I filled in.

"Yeah, you got it," he replied, the 4 also being as stubborn as the 10 in trying to fall into the pocket. "Hear they make pretty good money too."

I sighed and made my way around the table, bending over almost like I'd dropped the soap to aim at the 9. "I know right? Sometimes I wonder if they'd like me better there than in here."

"Yeah, well, at least when you're officially consultin' for the air force you're actually doin' something good by your country." Scorpion almost sounded like the ads that lured me into the OADF in the first place.

"Doin' good for my country ain't savin' my mom from the hood or-" The shot impacted both the 9 and the 8 - but the 8 slid off to one side and pocketed itself, the 9 miraculously avoiding the corner pocket. "Aw, tits."

"Geez, tough break." Scorpion chuckled softly.

"Them's what they are," I smirked, shrugging as I backed away from the table. "Good game, man."

"Likewise."

"Anyhow. I got to hit the hay. Can't keep my girl waiting, eh?" I replied, offering a hand to which Scorpion confidently shook.

"Yeah, no problem," he replied with a knowing smile.

"Catch you later," I added, putting the cue back on the wall and heading out.

As I turned to leave, Scorpion made just a little room for some deja vu.

"Hey Ricky," he said, just loud enough for me to hear from the other end of the rec room. "My offer still stands, and you can take her with you. Might be room for two up with the best, okay?"

I almost felt sorry for Shadow, knowing who he meant to replace without naming names. As for DJ Stryker, well, not so much.

"I'll think about it," I shrugged, not in the mood to make a counter-offer. "Night man."

I turned to leave, making my way down nondescript halls I'd long since memorized. But I'd never quite gotten to memorize the surprises in store.

"Lieutenant Villa?" A plain-looking MP in an even plainer uniform stepped out of a room nearby to greet me.

"Yeah?" Not that my body hadn't overloaded its nasty surprise meter for the time being. The two of us kept walking to the front door, and I kept him in a sideward glance.

"You've got a phone call, outside line."

"Who?"

"Kronus International Security," he continued.

He sounded like the idea wasn't new to him. But I stopped in my tracks, images of a certain Kronus Corporation bouncer immediately coming to mind.

"Oh Jesus." I groaned, "Am I in trouble again?"

These thoughts were immediately followed by the mental recollection of the images Genette showed me right before he got bounced.

"Not actually, but he d really like to talk with you now."

"Fine."

I followed the sergeant toward the crew room's phone, where the caller was no doubt on hold.

"Y~ello?" I asked almost dismissively as I picked it up.

"_Lieutenant_ Ricardo Villa?" The voice on the other end of the phone had a distinct Ratian accent, authentic as a multi-generational family pizzeria in Centrum and most certainly not the ominous snarl of Mr. Veiss City from a few days ago.

"This is he," I replied with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm _Co-lo-nel_ Enrico Amadeo, from Kronus International Security, and we are interested in someone of your talent. We would like to schedule a meeting with you."

It was at that very instant that precisely three moments from my past flashed before my eyes - Cap'n Freddy telling me he was going to work for that company, my encounter with said company s agent, and Scorpion's mention of the company mere minutes ago.

"...excuse me? This isn't the time..."

Immediately after those sequence of events, I also remembered that I had just potentially lost a wingman to the Yuktobanian winter under my watch, and I wasn't going to be in the best mood to interview.

Fortunately, Colonel Amadeo knew that too.

"I understand from your superior officers are also going through a rough time right now, so perhaps we can schedule it for sometime next week?"

The radical activist conspiracy theorist that resided in my tired cranium had prematurely put two and two together. That the references to this private military corporation and Scorpion trying to get me to "trade up" were more that just coincidence. That all this was planned out to target me, and me in person, two countries worth of soldiers be damned.

That conspiracy theorist was met by the same voice that told me that joining the Air Defense Force was a surefire path out of the ghetto for me and my mother. That we no longer had to live in a house vulnerable to sudden gunfire, concealed-carry parental escorts to the school bus, or worrying if one day I would be framed by some corrupt cop wanting to bail himself out of an IAD investigation.

It was good money.

It was desperation.

It was finally a way to earning the respect I'd been wanting all my life because any desire for accountability disappeared when I'd been this close to a successful frameup by the Joint Fucking Chiefs of Staff.

It was just that much more attention-catching than the sight of Albert Genette sitting on the nearby couch and reading Edge's book.

The same book one of my would-be stepfathers once read to me only a few nights before I nearly caught a stray bullet in the head while I slept.

"Okay, you've got my attention," I said, as that great fuzzy circle of metaphors completed in my head.

All of a sudden, I wasn't worried about rescuing Nagase anymore. I knew we could make that happen if only because I didn't want to live with the death of a teammate hanging over my head. Once we got her out I could transfer out to Venom or Kronus with a clean conscience, Chopper's headstrong idealism and temper notwithstanding.

Osea would win the war and everybody would go home happy, except for maybe Edge. I'd go home with the reputation of a hero, not a murderer. I'd be able to help my mom find a nice place where we wouldn't have to worry about stray bullets to the head, concealed-carry escorts to the bus stop or corrupt cops looking for frame-ups.

I would just never realize that these choices had already been made for me, and they weren't the ones I wanted to make. Not until it was too late.

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Johnson-Pacifica International Airport, SV**  
**August 2017**

_In international news, the government of Terceiro has put its armed forces on high alert following the refusal of the EPRL leaders to come to the negotating table._

_The Leasath rebel group, which claims ties to the international Valahia terrorist network, is reported to be mobilizing forces in its occupied territories for a major operation. This follows similar mobilizations by San Martin and Gran Adama, both in response to the joint military exercise with Osea and the Security Enterprise private military. In a statement to the media, the EPRL called these exercises a "provocation to which we have no choice but to respond."_

_A spokesperson for the Leasath military government said today that the military is already conducting operations to reclaim the territory still occupied by the EPRL, which includes several key ports and military installations. The AN has called an emergency meeting of the Security Council to discuss whether forces from private security firms can assist in the event of an emergency as part of the AN's Independent Peacekeeping Force mandate._

"How the hell did it all come to this..." Villa grumbled, looking at the news playing on the screen.

"Come to what?"

The two of us were sitting in Air East Osea's departure lounge waiting for our flight to Laurus, where 'Eduardo Trinidad' made his official residence. Blaze was already trying to get himself hung over in time for the flight.

"We never really changed anything, did we?" he continued, his tongue still sharp as ice. "Laid my ass on the line between two superpowers and all that happens is I'm forced to leave town and change my goddamn name."

"That's not true, Bl- Eddie," I replied, my voice exasperated. "Without you we couldn't have stopped them."

"But just look at the fucking news," he groaned, gesturing angrily yet almost casually at the TV screen playing. "Nothing's fucking changed. I'm working for the same people I thought I brought down, and I'm still flying the flag of the oppressor."

He reached a finger around to his other arm and tapped the gap between the two badges bearing the General Resource logo and the flag of Sapin, though I understood the meanings behind both.

Although it wasn't occupied by Erusea during the war, ISAF forces transited through the Fort Grace Islands - Blaze's country of heritage - en route to Comona and the amphibious landings. The country's president also opened the country to accommodate more refugees from the mainland than North Point, and proposed relaxing their trade barriers to revive the regional economy.

But for the people of a country that had fallen under the colonial influence of Sapin, Osea and North Point in the span of half a century, ISAF was just another round of neo-imperialism. The threat of Erusean fascism was bad enough. But to the Grasyanos the puppet strings of an alliance led by the same North Point that occupied them decades before and led the rebel fleet to their islands in 1997 were little better.

After the war ended, the Grasyanos capitalized on popular resentment and elected an opposition politician that ordered the ISAF troops and refugees to leave, and vetoed the free-trade legislation. The people were happy to see their sovereignty protected, and the powerful families that ruled their provinces were happy to have protected their interests.

GR's arrival gave small enterprises there the kick to compete with that clout, and many began to see their international span as another foreign interest's ploy.

"The Valahia are serious bad guys, Eddie," I countered. "You saw what they're capable of."

"Yeah, so?" he grunted.

The Valahia hadn't just won the sympathies of rogue organizations with their boldness and aggression. Now they'd even gotten the support of so-called "rogue states" across the world whose rulers were already making waves with their hard-line stances against the superpowers.

And that put the Grasyano elite in a bind when they found themselves caught between GR and a revived communist insurgency fueled by the Valahia.

"So maybe there are still bad guys out there?"

"Fuck, between the bad guys "out there" and the ones I'm working for?" he retorted with oozing sarcasm, "I'm just glad I'm finally getting a goddamn paycheck out of it."

"Blaze, you ever once for a moment think that it's not just about you?" I finally added.

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" Blaze looked like I'd slighted his family.

"I don't know," I replied, "Maybe the stuff you did for others might have changed the world for the better, and maybe watching the world improve is thanks enough?"

"Easy for you to fucking say," he snarled. "Your newspaper buddies bailed you out. You never got separated from everyone you loved. You're not even officially dead to everyone except the people you write back to."

By now his ranting had attracted the attention of the nearby diners - something that he was also quite painfully aware of.

"Oh God. I'm sorry..." Blaze mumbled, burying his face in his hands.

"No, it's okay," I replied, putting a hand on his shoulder.

I wanted to believe that he was wrong. That he did light a spark of hope that he should not have regretted.

But despite everything he did, despite the respect and enmity he d acquired from forces powerful and sometimes nameless, he was still a human being like me, like my editor in chief, like everyone that read the papers. One out of the billions that inhabited this lonely blue marble in the middle of the universe.

To say that neither of us could have doubts about what we did was delusional, at best. Especially to the degree that Blaze had.

I looked up at the TV, which had gone onto business news. If change was coming, it was slow as the progress of time, if any at all.

"Oh...Albert..." Blaze looked up, remembering something.

"Yeah?"

"I guess I gotta say this but...It's funny. I'm in a relationship now."

"Huh, that's good."

"With who?"

Blaze smiled. It was, of all things, a genuine if not knowing one. A smile of love. "They're gonna meet us in Laurus. It's not who you think it is, but I think...you'll be pleasantly surprised."

The irony was that I knew him enough that the revelation might not surprise me at all.

* * *

**In A Blaze of Glory - END**

* * *

_A/N: Apologies for the long delay. Sorry it's not quite as good but I wanted to leave it on a cliffhanger for the time being._

_A/N 2: Also, Scorpion Ramirez was directly inspired by Rico from Just Cause. There, I said it._


	19. Interlude II: Thoughtcrime

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them._

* * *

**Interlude II: Thoughtcrime**

* * *

**WNN Nightly**  
**14 November 2020**

_... spokesman for the Aurelian Air Defense Force confirmed the destruction of Leasath's airborne fortress Gleipnir over Santa Elva earlier today after a protracted battle that resulted in the city's recapture by Aurelian forces._

_We now go live to our correspondent in the region Scott Diamond for more on what these developments might bring. Scott?_

_"I'm standing near a park by the Iriba River where, as you can clearly see, the humongous bulk of the Gleipnir right behind me. The army and local authorities have already blockaded the area to stop scavengers but as you can see that hasn't stopped a few anxious locals from wanting a photo opportunity with it."_

_"It must have been quite horrifying for the people underneath its flight path."_

_"Well, the Gleipnir's final path followed the river for the most part, which enabled it to avoid crashing directly into downtown. You can see just down the river here the remains of a small bridge that was in its path."_

_"Scott, how has the Leasath military reacted to this? The Gleipnir was the spearhead of their initial offensive and losing it at this point in time must be a significant setback."_

_"The occupation authorities actually released a statement today claiming that the Gleipnir was hijacked by Aurelian spies and deliberately aimed at the downtown area to cause maximum casualties. The statement also claims that a heroic officer managed to take control of the ship and steer it away from harm just in time."_

_"Well, they appear to have gotten something right, it doesn't look like the Gleipnir was that badly damaged during its landing."_

_"Good point, Alma. In fact that's the reason for the barricades, the Aurelia Defense Forces are trying to see if there was any vital data stored onboard that will help their battle plan. But the technology that we have seen it demonstrate such as the cloaking and shockwave weaponry will definitely be valuable enough in their possession."_

_"So it's most certainly going to aid the Aurelian army's momentum?"_

_"The technology itself will take sometime to harness, but the fact that the Gleipnir had been brought down will most certainly be a morale booster for the Aurelian counterattack, as it is very much the largest remaining threat to their forces at this point in time."_

_"Okay, thank you Scott."_

_"Same, Alma, thanks."_

_"That was Scott Diamond in Santa Elva reporting from the Gleipnir crash site. Turning now to the FCU, where protests are mounting over rising unemployment..."_

* * *

**Ciel Restaurant, Gaiuss Tower**  
**Griswall, Aurelia**  
**Mid-November 2020**

The food is still the same lively, five-star selection it was for the last few months, the ambience still a mix of eclectic piano and some jazz every now and then. The Ciel staff are still hard at work catering to the occupation, as it remains about the only stable employment in the city after hours.

But the silence that had befallen the _guests_ this evening is deafening.

The fall of the Gleipnir had brought an end to Navarro's regular firebrand speeches. All of a sudden, the lively opulent conversations had died into hushed mutters, as if a murderer were in their midst.

The loudest exclamations are written, not said, as demonstrated by the Leasath People's Daily screaming SABOTAGE in large bold letters, finally getting it some semblance of readership on the stand. At least it seemed they had learned something from previous attempts at state-manipulated media by _not_ covering up the blatantly obvious. Perhaps that would have caused a bigger loss of morale as compared to blaming it on The Enemy.

Premier Navarro seems to understand it too. He is no longer grandstanding, but instead mingling with his supposed constituents: the few remaining foreign journalists and other well-to-do Leasath dignitaries and businessmen that were a staple at his functions. He even seemed to be doing a good job at assuaging their concerns, as if the transition from dictator to standard politician somehow improved his standing.

I remain at the periphery of it all, preferring to watch the goings-on at ground level. With the days growing longer, it is a more appealing view than watching a prolonged sunset.

The Leasath People's Army has the entire capital under lockdown. Armored attack vehicles and artillery are being set up around every corner, just out of the light. Entire fleets of transport and assault helicopters use the larger avenues as landing pads, soldiers loading and unloading cargo as studiously as worker ants. Large container trucks shuttle unusually-shaped crates toward the walls, possibly for gun emplacements.

And with Griswall International now converted into a military transport base, the walls have become my cage.

That, as it happened, was fine with me.

"Mr. Genette, it's almost time for curfew," comes a voice at my side.

I turn to find my minder, still dressing in that same gaudy suit with a Leasath flag pin. Other minders are making their way among the crowd to remind people that their current residences are the safest place to be with the capital soon to be under siege.

The only thing that apparently changed since the more opulent earlier days of the occupation was the look on his face, no longer brimming with scripted enthusiasm or drooping from intoxication. It is that kind of gentle, reassuring expression that implied he knew what I was thinking, and shared the sentiment.

"Sure."

He blushes a little as we rode the elevator back down to the ground level, keeping our distance in obvious recollection of that one stupor he had months ago.

Before we get into the luxury sedan for the ride back to my hostel, he withdraws a small device about the size of a cheap cellphone and places it under one of the seats. He does this in a way that I am supposed to notice.

The ride home is nowhere near as lively as it was at the start of the occupation. It is tense, mainly because of the device. Rather it is a silence made all the more tense by the fact that my 'usual minder' looks like he had been forcibly sobered up. Just as well, I remember that any trouble I caused would further reflect negatively on him.

Or rather, any trouble they are able to sniff out. We make small talk over life back in Leasath, what he intends to do if the war ends. He does repeatedly mention settling in "South Leasath" to start a family and perhaps work in a large library. He mentions wanting to be a historian, which I can assume in a dictatorship's newly-annexed state would be a very important profession.

When we pull up to the hostel, I get out of the car and bid him good night. But before I turn to leave, he reminds me, "Oh, and Mr. Genette, you left something?"

I raise my hand to my forehead as I am about to enter my hostel. "Ah, sorry. My bad," I reply as he withdraws a suitcase from the trunk and handed it to me. "I shouldn't keep forgetting these things out here."

I check the suitcase on the car's closed trunk to see if anything was stolen, tell him "it's all here" before nodding and thanking him, then heading into the hostel. He's already driven off before I close the door.

The hostel has been mostly empty after the end of the initial invasion. The other guests had returned to their home countries, the few journalists among them only stopping in to sleep and sober up after another night of wining and dining.

It is the perfect opportunity to finally take advantage of an expense account I hadn't paid much attention to since the end of the Valahia Crisis. Knowing my current room is probably bugged, I have another one reserved one across the hall and turned into my impromptu micro-bureau.

Once inside, I place the briefcase on a desk I had moved to the back of the room and open it, beginning the arduous task of rearranging and evaluating the small volume of documents inside.

As much as I mentally prepare for the these documents being faked or part of a trap - in which case I have a half-hearted plan to smuggle myself north to Terceiro - I find I am never quite prepared for the revelations these documents actually contain after having been verified as authentic. After all, this isn't the first batch I'm dealing with.

Still, many of these documents continue to confirm what I've already found.

Aurelia's exploitation of Leasath was a long-standing ruse, engineered even _before_ the Valahia began aiding the country's long-running insurgency.

Diego Gaspar Navarro had been the leader if not an influential power player in Leasath's politics since the Cold War. As a General he used that leverage to get him into the country's department of national defense after Ulysses fell, building up the country's military in response to "potential regional unrest."

He also fostered his relationship with Gründer Industries through the Osean government, who were looking for influential clients to bolster their campaigns against Yuktobanian and Usean proxies. Navarro used this to build Gründer's South Osea branch, making him the godfather of the domestic arms industry as well.

When Osea seized Gründer's assets after its war against Yuktobania, Navarro was able to keep the South Osea division for himself, profiting off sales to many different factions and conflicts across the globe. Flush with wealth from developing its own indigenous weapons industry, Leasath was well on its way to becoming the next "airborne fortress" power after Estovakia.

But Navarro's ambitions were no match for the atmosphere of global disarmament. He was fast becoming obsolete, and his extensive contact list with the other arms dealers, crime cartels and the private militaries were putting him on the fast track to the villain short list.

The Valahia were, ironically, his godsend. During the Crisis they fueled the People's Revolutionary Army of Leasath (EPRL) insurgency to such heights that ministers had to travel with air escort. Navarro took advantage of the chaos to launch a coup d'etat against the struggling government, with the support of the various factions that hadn't thrown their support to the Valahia.

Once in power, he focused all his efforts into developing his airborne fortress fleet - which he then used against EPRL bases with drastic efficiency.

In the process he also cultivated his contacts with the international media through generous payoffs, who were quick to accept planted evidence of Aurelian "manipulation" in the civil war even after the Valahia crisis.

Secretly in league with the Valahia, they would write, the Aurelians apparently funded the EPRL in hopes of installing a like-minded regime and becoming a regional power of their own. Obvious ideological differences aside, it had obviously been their ploy since the rich elites toppled the idealistic South Leasath governors in the early 1900s and founded their Osean puppet regime.

Of course, all this expenditure for Leasath's "great counter-attack" had to be paid for. And that ironically was where Aurelia came in...for the most part.

Aurelia had been Leasath's biggest benefactor in aid since the earliest campaigns against the local drug cartels in the 1980s. But as the EPRL crisis escalated, the money they had sent for food and development had been siphoned off to feed the Leasath military machine. After all, every army marched on their stomachs.

Meanwhile, the hundreds of millions of zollars sent as monetary aid was used to pad the profit/loss statements of Navarro's arms industry. These expropriations were listed under every insignificant expenditure in the book and then some.

Much of the remaining expenditures were accounted for by extremely lucrative contracts for natural resources in both Leasath and the presumably-occupied Aurelia, totaling into the billions.

These contracts were awarded to companies based in Usea and Leasath's regional allies, but searches of each of these companies' names and their parents and affiliates on my laptop stationed nearby quickly led back to a single entity.

"...Neucom." I found myself staring at the screen - and at the logo on its website.

Like General Resource, the Erusean conglomerate had also been making moves outside Usea. They utilized the existing subsidiaries of the Erusean industries that had banded together to form Neucom to pursue aggressive expansion and marketing. And like General Resource, they weren't above putting every card on the table when meddling with international politics either.

Their dealings with Aurelia were publicly promoted. Under their Rising Power program they sent entire shiploads of experimental aircraft for use in fighting Leasath, and the Aurelian military's resurgence was certainly if not finally paying dividends on that investment - in terms of money and data gathered.

These documents detailed technology transactions with these companies through their local subsidiaries, along with massive purchases of commodities. These were easily fingers in Leasath's pie as well.

But none of their contracts for Leasath ever advanced past feasibility studies or geological surveys to make sure that the natural resources were actually there - even though a good portion of the money had already been paid.

It almost seems as if Neucom are willingly taking part in some kind of grand Esapino prisoner scam, but a corporation with the brainpower to supply viable experimental fighter planes to national air forces would certainly not be _that_ naive to fall for something like that even on such a big scale.

This created a yawning gap for all these revenues to account for _more_ than just Leasath's ability to build the airborne fortresses as well as create a regionally-dominant fighting force in such a short time span.

This war was obviously conceived as a replacement for the civil war in order to maximize profits from arms and commodities sales. Neucom is profiting from betting on either side to win.

The only question left to answer is what fills the gap left behind.

It was easy enough to surmise that Diego Gaspar Navarro wanted Leasath to be a superpower and use its conquest of Aurelia for global prestige. And regardless of who won, Neucom looked set to profit immensely from arms contracts, resource concessions and infrastructure.

But that doesn't explain 'why' Navarro seems completely at ease despite the loss of his precious airborne fortress. Maybe his mingling at the party earlier was his effort to assure his Neucom backers that things would turn out all right for their bottom line when they'd _willingly_ poured as much money into his coffers as the Aurelians inadvertently did.

I feel confident that I can close this gap as I put these pieces together, which was not reassuring in itself. It was bad enough that what I was doing would risk discovery by the Leasath occupation authorities. Finding out what a corporate giant was up to _without_ the reach of a superpower or the Osean media industry to protect me was already biting off more than I could chew.

And it is, to put it bluntly, the spark I'd been waiting for setting a wildfire I couldn't control.

Especially when I once again learned never to judge a cadre by his suit.

As it turned out, my minder hadn't been drowning himself in luxury and drink for no reason.

Of all the things he wanted to grow up to be, he explained he wanted to be an author. Or librarian. Or some mix with a little bit of adventure thrown in, like the great adventurer-detectives of the time. A genuine historian, not just one that rewrote it to suit propaganda.

The man survived the civil war, scraping and hiding whatever he could to finish his education when peace finally broke out.

In the process, he built up a little social network of his own as the first school year resumed. He'd tried to keep his spirits up even with Navarro in power, and that meant mouthing the propaganda if he wanted to stay in school.

Yet he quickly realized he wasn't the only one that didn't want to do it. His little social network extended to the Ministries of Information and Foreign Affairs. Each of them a survivor of their own, they privately affirmed to each other that Navarro was a dictator whose goal was to rule South Osea and profit off of it. Whatever Aurelia did or might have done - and in the game of global power, it may as well have been substantial - did not absolve him of his ambition.

They knew his coup d'etat against the previous administration and victory in the civil war had been planned in advance, and each of them held a component of the smoking gun.

All they needed was someone to entrust it to, and they couldn't trust anyone in their government.

Maybe the bottle of Stiergarten 1994 was a clue, or a feeler. A day after he tried to literally cop a feel with me in the elevator, he went on another drunken rant, revealing bits and pieces of his life story. Perhaps the civil war that left his home country a failed state made these little revelations inevitable.

But about a week after the Aurelians took Port Patterson, my minder approached me in the restroom during another banquet night and told me simply that he had "heard of my work."

In that moment I was struck with dread. I was unsure if I was going to be deported, jailed or passed off as another "casualty", until he continued that there were "others like him" that knew something that "they" didn't want me to.

I was also unsure if 'they' referred to the Aurelians, like they had done something particularly bad that the Leasath government was hiding. He then made an offer: if I really did want to know more, I would ask the hostel's receptionist if there was a package for me from a "Mr. Mondeci."

That he addressed the package from the now-deceased-and-disgraced founder of General Resource was what set off my motivation. The package that arrived for me contained a seemingly ordinary ledger that detailed a shipment of aid being rerouted to an armored unit that had briefly recaptured Port Patterson in a daring raid only to be thwarted by the increasingly-legendary Gryphus Squadron.

I had to be sure it was real. I quietly forwarded it to my regional contacts through encrypted cloud storage to avoid censors.

And before long, they got back to me and confirmed they were authentic. With that, I wanted more.

Every time I get into the car to or from the Gaiuss Tower or whatever landmark I am supposed to be shown, my minder discreetly reveals to me the bug he is required to plant in the car. The small talk is there to ensure they only hear what they want to hear, and Navarro's agents are clearly too busy managing defense of the capital to take care of their minders' drinking habits.

Each sheet I feed through a cheap Verese-made document scanner I had delivered from a nearby computer shop feels like a giant grain of sand in my own hourglass, before being placed in a plain cardboard box marked with "Souvenirs" or something trivial to that effect. I need not worry about organizing those for the time being, since I've already done those with virtual files in virtual folders. With every batch, the process of encrypting and bouncing them off my contacts for authentication begins anew, like the hourglass turned over.

But even those boxes are starting to build up in the closet, undoubtedly noticeable.

Navarro and Neucom are hiding something bigger than the airborne fortress and its weapons underneath all the black marker redactions on these documents and all the billions of zollars and francs he had poured into his army and Neucom contracts. Something the LPA and perhaps even my minder and his allies do not know.

The one thing I do know is that time is running out to find out what that is - as well as the identity of the pilot i'm looking for. The LPA will fight even harder to protect Griswall, posing more risk for the pilot that they believe leads the charge against them.

I am now certain that this "Nemesis" they speak of is that very pilot.

I can only hope I find what I am looking for before the hourglass really runs out...for me and the Southern Cross.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

_A/N: As you have clearly read, I've now taken some fairly massive creative liberties with the ACX canon, including preserving the Gleipnir (because I think it's cute) and wedging Neucom into the plot. I don't believe one person could have engineered all that conflict himself without at least a little help._

_A/N 2: You may also have noticed I uploaded this less than a week after the last chapter. As mentioned previously I do tend to work on chapters in batches, so I post a flurry at a time then "go dark" due to whatever commitments I have. Sorry for the inconsistency._


	20. The Facade

_Original story based on and including characters and material created by Project Aces for Namco Bandai. The author claims no ownership over them._

* * *

**Thy Enemy As Thyself (Knight)**  
**Chapter 1: The Facade**

_"All nations want peace, but they want a peace that suits them." - Admiral Sir John Fisher_

* * *

**Windsor Building  
****76th St & 5th Av  
****Gracemeria, Emmeria**

**31 March 2016  
****1828 hrs.**

_"Aw, shit. This is 4-13-Actual, we got bodies all over the Grand Ballroom. It's a fucking massacre in here."_

_"...can you confirm how many?"_

_"I'm counting at least 20. Freshly dead too. At least 5 Stovies too, some grunts and at least two officers. Both male."_

_"Scorched fucking earth. Did they-"_

_"No, looks like these Stovie shits were killed afterward."_

_"Resistance, maybe?"_

_"From the look of it...they shot each other. Death pact maybe?"_

_"Taking the world out with them sounds about- Hold on...one of these Slav shits' moving."_

_"Check him for a suicide vest."_

_"Shit- Okay, I got his guns. No...n__o bombs or grenades either. What'll we do about him?"_

_"4-13-Actual to Broad Street. We got a live one. Looks like a Major or Colonel. ...yeah...okay. We're gonna bring him in."_

_"Fucking hell, man. Can't just shoot the fucker right here? For all these people?"_

_"Those are major's stripes? HQ's gonna milk 'em for the guys that ordered this shit before they toss his pretty little ass into Santo Matteo. Get him out of here."_

_"Hey Bricktop! I got IDs from those two girls there...Oh shit."_

_"What?"_

_"...you're not gonna believe this..."_

* * *

**Albert Genette**

**Sidrgrade, Estovakia**  
**August 2017**

If there was one lesson to be learned from history repeating itself, it was that no plan ever survived, period.

As I stepped out of the plane from Cinigrad into Sidrgrade-Jovanovic International Airport, and made my way through immigration and baggage claim toward a bus that would take me to the city's central bus terminal, I was immediately greeted with the evidence. The advertisement-covered construction blockades that funneled passengers into narrowing passageways concealed the damage of war that seemed only too recent.

Outside on the arrivals roadway, I got a better glimpse of a similar scene only magnified to the span of Sidrgrade itself. It seemed as if the entire city and all its rubble were - perhaps finally - being uprooted like weeds, or at least being covered in glass.

The Federal Republic of Estovakia - now simply the Republic of Estovakia - had only started to recover from two decades of conflict and destruction that left so many plans and dreams in its wreckage.

President Dalibor Jovanovic was the first Estovakian leader to subscribe to the idea of a United Anean Republic during the Cold War as he tried to ease his country out of Yuktobania's sphere of influence. But with the Ulysses impact boundaries redrawn to include Anea, they turned back to Yuktobania to fund the Chandelier. Despite the tensions, things seemed to be going well until the project was suddenly ordered stopped in 1998.

There were no clear answers as to why. Some believed that the project violated the Boltzmann Treaty by its design, which apparently pointed directly at Emmeria. Or perhaps it was because Estovakia refused to make one political concession too many for Yuktobania. Whatever the real reason was, ending the Chandelier's funding ultimately sealed Estovakia's fate.

The country limped on for a few more years, thanks mostly due to Yuktobanian aid and imported Belkan technology keeping the military placated. But after Gründer Industries fell, whatever stability was left in Estovakia collapsed with it.

The end of the Anean Continental War finally buried the idea of the United Anean Republic for good. As soon as the last General was toppled, the territories once held by the different factions began to assert their independence from the central government, and the new administration was happy to let them go.

Kajnia, comprising the peoples of the provinces united under General Mijo Lyes, had suffered some of the worst ethnic cleansing atrocities of the civil war as well as the Generals' administration. They were the first to secede, their separation from the former federal republic hasty enough to cause a minor border conflict.

The next to secede were the Covanians whose islands comprised their Coalition, followed by the resource-rich Hrno Gorje of the Trade Tariff Federation, and finally the northern highlands province of Parlatia. The "new" Estovakia was barely a quarter of its former size, but still maintained its historical capitol of Sidrgrade - the "anchor city."

There were echoes of the old Belka in the news coverage, replete with the memories of Estovakia's albeit-brief military strength. And like Belka, it was left to the new rising stars of the corporate world to invest bringing these ruined nations back to life. Both General Resource and Neucom were among the first to offer lucrative contracts to the new governments, and the people, tired of war and seeking new prosperity, were quick to accept.

Although none of the new countries turned down either company's offer, the twin titans started their large developments in different territories - often on opposite sides of the country or even the same city. Analysts tracking their developments on a map quickly noticed that the former Estovakian territories were marked in a checkerboard of orange and blue, almost like they were mapping out gang territories.

And that drew the ire of the Valahia, who wanted to unite not only Anea but the world under their anti-superpower ideology. The dawn of their insurgency attracted sympathizers not just from the ranks of the Generals, but from former faction leaders in every corner of the former Estovakia.

If the Ulysses, the civil war, and their war against Emmerian hegemony was the injury, then having the ashes scooped up and thrown in the dustbin by corporations and their perceived puppet governments was both the added insult and the salt in the wound.

In the former Estovakia, their attacks quickly escalated from bank robberies and IEDs to head-on assaults on police stations and even military bases. It only seemed a matter of time before they would even get their hands on the successors to the dreaded Estovakian Aerial Fleet, fully-built and stowed away in hangars after the Generals deemed them too costly to deploy during the war.

Although the chaos had yet to approach Sidrgrade, I could see personnel of General Resource's new Security Enterprise PMC patrolling the streets alongside local police forces. Their strikingly modern equipment and vehicles sharply contrasted with the police still driving Yuktobanian-manufactured vehicles that still bore scars of the civil wars before.

The rising corporate star was no doubt as eager to protect their investments as much as if not more than the people that benefited from them. And that concerned their CEO Francis Mondeci, who seemed to be increasingly drowned out by those members of his board that favored more ruthless expansion into the industries he openly abhorred.

The more they leaned toward becoming _that_ kind of corporation, the more the face of GR turned out to be another mask for a monster, the more they would incur from their critics - vocally and physically.

I manage to take a few pictures of the contrast as the airport bus weaved deeper into the city. Battered Yuktobanian-made sedans and farm trucks mixed into traffic with brand new sport compacts and luxury cars. Street vendors mingled with businessmen and senior citizens using Verese-branded tablet PCs. Ironically it is the sense of normalcy that pervades amidst the city's transformation that made these scenes feel more evocative, as if society had inherited the idea of changing masks after their leaders did.

With all those tempers about to flare over, I had already begun questioning if there was really a real environment of peace or if it was all just a more visible downswing in the cycle of conflict - and if there would be hope for those trying to escape it.

I try to keep to myself as I make my way through the city's central terminal to a more dilapidated bus that would take me outside the city to one of those people. Although I seem aged enough to blend in, I only have a tourists' phrasebook knowledge of Estovakia and no interpreter. Anything that could happen to me here would be outside of the Osean media complex's protection.

The two-faced city disappears behind me as the dilapidated bus slips onto an expressway and into the countryside. The ride predictably takes longer than it's supposed to, thanks to potholes being filled and those yet to be filled snarling up traffic.

The man I came here to meet lives in a small house out in the countryside of Mosporica, about an hour outside of Sidrgrade. Far from finding peace after being involved in two wars, his struggle only looks set to deepen for being caught up in the middle of a third.

As a few small clouds make their way across the sky, I notice the house has fallen into a state of disrepair, its paint peeling, drainage pipes rusting and vines starting to creep up the sides. But it still looks better for wear than other buildings not under renovation in this part of town. The door still manages to hold as I knock on it a couple of times.

The man that answers the door looks even worse for wear given his age, but he still manages to force a smile underneath his stubble-covered face. He is slightly shorter than me, with sandy blonde hair.

"Ah, Mister Genette," he begins. There is a twinkle in his darkened green eyes.

"Major Dragovic?"

"Please, call me Nemo." He smiles softly as he shakes my hand, seemingly knowing that I wouldn't be disturbed by a voice laced with tragedy. Still, hearing an Estovakian speak perfect Nordlish tinged with a San Salvacion accent surprised me. "Come in."

The house is old and sparsely furnished, our footsteps making audible thumps on the old wood floors. His martial living style left little in the way of luxury, except for perhaps a fully stocked bookshelf - an oddity in an era where both genuine and knockoff e-readers could be acquired for the right price greasing the right palm in even the most open market.

Sunlight permeates through the rust-lined glass windows, breathing a sense of hope and contentment into the old dwelling.

"I'm so glad you came over," he continues, a calm sincerity flowing through his voice.

"I am too," I reply, more thankful than sincere.

Six years on, my grand expose of the events of the Ceres Conflict had cemented my legacy as a one-hit wonder. I had moved up in the Journal, becoming one of its lead international correspondents. But apart from the Interview with a Nightingale for the anniversary issue of Brett Thompson's documentary, I hadn't even come close to any event of world-shaking prominence apart from the international conferences that the Editors-in-Chief personally vetted me to cover.

Most of it was for my safety. Many of the remaining Gray Men had been able to retreat to the shadows, planning their next move despite (and sometimes with) the efforts of the superpowers' governments. The Osean media industry's protection had also kept me from going to any particular danger zone where I could be much more easily picked off and passed off was a war casualty or street crime statistic.

But perhaps most of it reflected my own disappointments dampening my motivation. Any lead that seemed to really interest me led to much more mundane ends. Maybe I was just waiting for another story to happen to me, much like the last war.

Getting to meet Blaze before our paths parted ways only seemed to worsen those feelings. To see an albeit cynical man like him give up any sliver of hope to accept his fate did not bode well for the peace he gave so much for,

Yet the moment I got back home from declaring my intention to take a small sabbatical from the Journal, I received an e-mail from a very familiar name that seemed to alleviate those feelings. Although this would be my first trip to Estovakia, further correspondence with Nemo over the phone piqued my interest when he elaborated on why he reached out to me specifically.

"I received a letter from North Point," he continued as he withdrew an envelope sitting openly on one of the bookshelves. "I can't believe they wrote back!"

Although the letter was written in Nordlish, the bilingual letterhead was dominated in the giant block calligraphy and the large, red split triangle that was characteristic of only one military force in the world.

"It's from the Self-Defense Force," he replies with a child-like, innocent smile. "They want me to go to the consulate downtown and meet him tonight."

The wording of the letter did not seem to indicate it would be a meeting with a specific person, only that he was given an appointment regarding his inquiry to the NPSDF's 118th Tactical Fighter Wing, and that he could bring a guest that they had to vet beforehand.

"And that's why you called me?"

"To be truthful, I could hardly think of anyone else," he replied wistfully. "And I cannot trust myself to write the end of my memoirs."

With that in mind, the ending of his 'story' would also be an exclusive scoop in and of itself - the end of a journey that dominated of his life on two continents.

After his release from prison, Nemo penned a series of memoirs retelling his story growing up in the Usean country of San Salvacion after the fall of Ulysses, and the moral paradox he would endure as he came to befriend the man indirectly responsible for orphaning him at the war's outbreak. It tells of his involvement with two factions diametrically opposed to, yet as human as each other.

And most importantly, it was specifically addressed to the pilot that shot that man down: Mobius 1, a man whose identity had long since been concealed for his own safety. It asks what he thought, what reason he had for fighting, and how he retained his humanity amidst it all.

Nemo's own search for purpose would lead him to fight his own battles during the latter half of the Estovakian Civil War and the later war against Emmeria. It is a story of finding family and love. And it documents a struggle that very nearly lead him to the defendant's chair of the International Court of Justice.

"So that means we're leaving now?"

"Yes! There's no time to waste!" he beckons.

I turn to follow him out of the house toward his car, a late-model Yuktobanian-rebadged Fiat that ran but clearly never ran well like others from its time period. Before we get in, he paces ahead and gives the car a walkaround almost as if it was his personal plane, though it's not to check if the car runs.

A small corporate etching on the glass reveals that it is bulletproofed, or at least advertised as such.

"Good, we should be safe," he replies, the first seriousness I have heard from him since we met.

Rather than be surprised, I simply nodded in approval as we opened the doors to get in. His inspection is a grim reminder to the both of us that the sword makes enemies as much as the mighty pen.

"Nemo" is Major Nemanja Dragovic of the Estovakian Air Force, 71st Air Regiment, 9th Fighter Wing.

Zmaj 1, named after the legendary dragon for his versatility in the air, as well as the sense of morality he had tried to seek, piece by piece.

A morality he had finally found by losing it.

* * *

_To Be Continued..._

* * *

_Author's Note: So yes. It's going to be a stretch to bring the storyteller boy from AC04 to Estovakia but I fear I might be able to actually pull this off._


	21. Like Distant Thunder

_Original material based on stories and characters by Project Aces. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them._

* * *

**Thy Enemy As Thyself (Knight)**  
**Chapter 1: Like Distant Thunder**

* * *

**5 May 2016**  
**Santo Matteo Penitentiary**  
**121 km. WSW of Mante, Emmeria**

_"Next up is... #71987: Major Nemanja Dragovic, Air Force. Born in San Salvacion, fluent in 4 languages, assigned to...ooh, this is one of the guys that got deployed to our city, not another of those Gracemeria superstars."_

_"Yeah, and it says here he's also the guy they found breathing at the Windsor massacre down there."_

_"Fucking serious? Oh shit, there's that look in his eyes."_

_"And he hasn't said a damn word since he left the hospital, let's see...well shit. Special papers are _highly_ recommending placing him in solitary immediately?"_

_"You serious? Bastard like him deserves life in general population _and_ a cellmate _twice_ his size for all those people. It'll be a lot less expensive than waiting years for a slam-dunk death penalty verdict."_

_"I'm thinking the same damn thing. Also says the guy's an expat with Eastern Faction all over his record. If the Kajnians and Covanians don't tenderize his plush rump in 24 hours, the native Stovies'll just shank him in the halls for being a foreigner."_

_"Here, lemme see the papers. Why would they want him in- oh. Never thought I'd see the spooks' paperwork so quickly."_

_"If I had my way we wouldn't be arguing this crap, eh. But those ESIS spooks flooded my inbox with their special letterhead stock announcing his arrival. They wanna make sure his throat's not gutted with some cellmate's genetic material before they're done with him."_

_"Must be pretty valuable for a genocidal maniac."_

_"So's every fucking Stovie with stars on their shoulder. My guess is he's in bed with the junta if this says he was stationed on Moby Dick before the war."_

_"Okay, solitary it is then. Gives him a good view of his homeland if he can reach the bars. Then we can transfer him to general population once we're sure ESIS is finished wringing his ass out."_

_"Hopefully they'll leave a little bit of that ass intact for the Kajnians, eh."_

_"Amen to that. Next up is #71988..."_

* * *

**Nemanja Dragovic  
Years Earlier**

In Estovakian, Nemanja means "no possessions." In Latin, its short form Nemo means "nobody."

In a way, the name my parents gave me represented their spirit. President Jovanovic opened Estovakia's immigration policy outside of Yuktobania's sphere, granting new opportunities for my parents to work and live abroad.

My father arrived in San Salvacion with only the proverbial clothes on his back and a doctorate, marrying well with another immigrant colleague from the Covanian provinces. Together they had to establish that they were more than just "nobody." I was born out of their prosperity as well. I was the first generation of my family born outside of the "old country," although I had no concept of where that 'old' was.

It would seem ironic that the country I called home for my childhood would experience its greatest prosperity with the threat of imminent apocalypse looming over my cradle, high above the circling charms and toys. That was because the country housed the only working weapon that would shield us from certain doom.

They found their own prosperity though their own work, and I was born into comfort. My earliest, most faded memories are from that house on the quiet cape by Lake Oronell. There were two bedrooms, one for my parents, and one for me, and a yard that was just room enough for a football game or two with my classmates after school.

We lived just outside a small town that provided our needs, where everybody knew everybody and people weren't afraid to say hello to a newcomer as much as a long-time resident.

Just beyond that was the capital, where my parents practiced. I was a latchkey kid from the day I entered primary school, which made it all the more exciting when my parents came home from work, however late. Although they would have their arguments from time to time as any couple would, at least one of them would be there to tuck me in to bed at night.

The fates were good to us too, for a while. The brief conflict that swept Usea after the war in Belka passed by quickly. And when the meteor broke apart, the country activated the cannon to destroy them. It was that cannon that mostly spared us from the fate that befell the country of my ancestry and most of the continent.

Yet even then we knew that the cannon would not be able to stop every single asteroid fragment.

That very night, my family and I gathered in the living room. My parents had finished receiving and sending what they hoped would not be their last requests to their colleagues and our relatives across the world, through physical and electronic mail. We said grace over dinner, with an extra moment of silence to help us realize that this could very well be our last meal. We ate quietly, not wanting to break the ice with despair.

For if this were truly the last hours of our lives, we would spend them together.

After the dishes were put away, my father brought out his guitar and we gathered around the fireplace.

My father played his guitar most nights when he wasn't too tired from his work, often performing nursery rhymes, family-friendly hits from the decades before or folk songs from Estovakia, sometimes even the themes from the Osean or Erusean animated features on television with Salavan overdubs or subtitles.

There were a few songs I memorized so well that I could sing along even in their native languages.

But this night was different. It was special.

It was the first night he played _that_ song.

He told me it was a local ballad, from either here or Sapin, when the country was once its overseas satellite. The kind that people played to lift their spirits in times of deepest despair. The kind that embodied the hope at the bottom of the box of horrors, the light at the end of the tunnel.

I learned to play the harmonica from the moment I could pick it up, and I could not help but join in as he began to strum those solemn chords. I improvised, but every note out of that small metal instrument seemed to blend perfectly with each chord as if I'd known that song all my life.

We could hear distant thunder emanating from the flawless ebony sky, in the distance, but we played on until the song ended.

After they turned the lights out and went to bed, I went to my bedroom window and watched the stars. The stars streaked across brighter than they ever did, carrying dozens upon hundreds of thousands of hopes and wishes and dreams and I hoped and _prayed_ that the stars would not come to claim me with them.

I eventually made my way into my parents' bedroom and climbed into bed between them.

As I slipped into the realm of dreams, our house seemed to be engulfed by a sudden thunderstorm, accompanied by the sound of water washing up against our doorway. The tribulation only lasted a few seconds, but I could not sleep for knowing that the apocalypse was knocking. After the splashing resided, I fell back into the realm of slumber.

The house's frame held strong, creaking and groaning but not budging or bending. The next morning the three of us went immediately to work, cleaning up the puddles it had left in the living room and kitchen with nary a word said to each other.

As soon as the work was done, we embraced in tears.

This was the day we lived.

After breakfast we went outside to find the lake full of boats, not so much for people needing evacuation from other residences around the lake as much as they carried divers looking to chip away the fragments that landed in the lake to sell as lucky charms.

We would all need luck for what followed.

* * *

The first image displayed on our television when broadcasts resumed was a massive pillar of dust over Farbanti, in nearby Erusea. Where other large fragments had impacted in the wilderness, or smaller cities or villages that had been evacuated, one such fragment directly hit a nation's capital. Neither slum nor skyscraper had been spared in its impact, helicopters searching increasingly in vain for what few remained.

Only then did we have that suspicion that it really was the beginning of the end.

War had always been something that took place in lands far away, drama played out on television or movies. In real life, the violent acts of desperate men fighting for desperate causes. After the meteors fell, the desperation consumed the daily newscasts as the charity of neighbors was no match for the instinct to survive at whatever cost.

Yet even as the country of my heritage slowly began crumbling in on itself from the asteroids, I found it hard to feel sympathetic, to relate. But Estovakia was on the other side of the world. Erusea was next door, and we were already starting to feel the consequences in the weeks leading up to that day.

Every country was asked to take in refugees regardless of how badly they were affected. Entire convoys of refugees and the Assembly of Nations caretakers transited to and through our town, and the townsfolk tried their best to make their stay as hospitable as possible, however brief. Yet eventually it began to grind on the nerves of the countries where they made their safe haven, and the Eruseans were especially aggrieved having to take in so many.

Anti-immigrant sentiment had been on the rise since the meteors were first discovered, but when locals found themselves in the same refugee camps as their continental neighbors, tensions quickly boiled over.

First the police, then the military were deployed to quell the crisis, but even they did not appreciate having to fire upon their own citizens. Soon even they protested and mutinied against a government that could barely muster the will to keep them in line. This left it to neighbors that were themselves reigning in conflicts of their own, and that was the last straw.

Their rebellion had one power base the others didn't - the unified public of a developed nation. They brought in a new government, one prepared to show the continent that its suffering was not to be exploited. They closed their borders, and mobilized their own citizens. The news echoed the sentiments of another fallen nation that had tried the same folly, but unlike Belka the Eruseans were convinced that this time, they would not suffer the same fate. The Assembly of Nations could not stop them, because they wielded veto power.

Rather than fling themselves upon what the new junta began publicizing as savages, they instead chose to wield their might against the continent. They called it unification, to bring stability upon a continent falling apart. Other commentators and important figures saw it as reestablishing the colonial empire that morphed into half of the FCU before my parents were born.

And to them, to us, it was the imminent end of the peace and prosperity we enjoyed.

They sent in a special forces team to capture the cannon, and used it to bring war upon us. Air supremacy was easy to achieve when they had an anti-aircraft weapon that could span an entire continent. Entire air forces were trapped between the rail gun's blasts and attackers and bombers swooping in for easy kills. The amateur footage broadcast over all the television networks depicted science fiction suddenly becoming reality.

The national army was already in full retreat at the onset, caught between their own gun and the advancing forces.

Yet the cruelest irony was that when the war finally reached our town, it did not arrive with the cacophony of bomb explosions and gunshots, of people screaming in pain.

It arrived with the sound of distant thunder.

* * *

Four years after the meteors, on that last day of summer, I had breakfast, kissed my parents goodbye and got on my bicycle. School had been cancelled, but I was asked to get a few more things from the market, the last of the emergency rations and supplies we had stockpiled in the event of a protracted occupation. We had gone through routines of what to say to occupation soldiers, where to run in case of emergencies where we were united or separated.

The sky was immaculately blue that day, with puffy clouds that almost seemed to be punctured like balloons by the contrails being drawn all across the sky.

And I stopped to watch out of curiosity. Fighter planes weaving a dance of death up in the sky, the symphony of aerial acrobatics climaxing with fireworks of oil and metal.

I had been watching for only a for a moment when a gust of wind knocked me off of my bicycle. I yelped as my knees scraped across the gravel before looking upward to see what happened.

The sharp silhouettes of fighter jets streaked and swooped low around the hills, as if daring to see how close they could come to crashing. I clung to the ground, the accompanying gusts of wind threatening to pull me with it as the jets fled back into the sky quicker than they had come out of it.

Then there was another explosion. A fighter circling a wide arc high above was caught off guard by one off the fighters from below. A black smoke trail marked its deathly plunge from the blue, its body burning bright orange and yellow as it plunged to the ground barely a kilometer from whence I came.

Another fighter plane had swooped low to verify its kill. It was probably travelling at hundreds of kilometers an hour, its jet engines just loud enough to rise above the ringing in my ears from the previous one. But as I got up, instinct drove me to follow it until I reached the lakeshore.

I will never forget what I saw.

On its nose was the number 13, emblazoned in the same yellow that covered its underbelly. My mind managed to record it in the few fleeting seconds before it punched upward back into the fray.

Once out of sight though, my attention was drawn to the pillar of smoke that marked the enemy fighter's crash site.

Across the lakeshore, I could spot the burning remains of a small house on the cape.

The same house where my parents lived.

It was twilight out when the local police were cleared to leave their safe zones. They found me curled up and asleep by the side of the road, my eyes swollen and red from realizing that my family now only lived in memories past.

* * *

When I woke up in the station later that night, the first thing I noticed were a couple of local officers trying not to notice me in return. But I could tell from the look on their faces that they at least vaguely understood what just happened, and that perhaps something similar was happening to them and their own loved ones elsewhere.

They kept me in an empty office to rest while they looked for any surviving loved ones my parents had. It was difficult contacting even the major cities let alone the capital, as the Eruseans were thorough in cutting off communication from the rest of the world.

The alliance of nations that tried in vain to stand up against the Eruseans fled across the ocean to the islands in the east to regroup. In the Usean capital of Saint Ark, the armies of several nations were making a valiant last stand. Our town, deep in the mainland, fell into deep isolation.

By the time my uncle - my mother's brother - came to pick me up in the taxi he normally used for work, the new order was already assimilating the old. The enemy advance was so rapid that there were barely any signs of fighting. Even I couldn't remember exactly when they occupied the capital.

My uncle had me enrolled in primary before it resumed that year, buying a new set of clothes and school supplies.

The first thing I learned as I started the new grade was how to pledge allegiance to Erusea in Salavan, and how to respond in the respectfully subservient manner when encountering one of the many checkpoints that appeared almost every other city block. MPs now controlled law enforcement, from the checkpoints to arresting dissenters all the way down to the crossing guards that escorted us home from school.

The local _gendarme_, of course, had quietly been "disappeared" not too long after my uncle picked me up from the station.

Gas and other essentials were rationed to civilians while "order" was restored. APCs, jeeps and tanks quickly became the only traffic on the roads. Internet connections for non-military networks were severed almost immediately, and phone usage was restricted and very heavily monitored. The more ingenious of improvisers were able to secretly tune in to Nordlish-language propaganda from North Point on their satellite dishes, but those also ceased. Perhaps the satellites were destroyed or their frequencies were jammed.

Although the occupation forces operated the 21st century, daily life seemed to regress back to the 19th for everyone else. Horses pulled carts normally pulled by trucks, and when power shut down at regular intervals people began wiring up crystal radios to pick up anything that could ease the monotony of the waking hours.

The tall brick buildings that dominated the _antic barri_ dated back to the days of Esapino rule. But where once they seemed charming and rustic, the occupation transformed the streets into the cold, foreboding bottom of a labyrinthine abyss of brick and mortar. At night, without street lights or window lights to guide anyone, they seemed almost haunted.

I passed much of the few remaining daylight hours scanning the skies from the roof of the old apartment block that I found myself forced to call home.

It was ironic that my preoccupation with finding the "Yellow 13" fighter plane that had changed my life in one fell swoop was somehow more tolerable than watching the transformation of my uncle in a home that was following him in its decay.

Out of gas and out of work, he did naught but to drown his sorrows in drink. What rapport we developed in the month or so before rationing hit had dissolved in his liquor, along with most of whatever savings he had left. By the time the leaves turned red, he was almost unrecognizable as the man who once offered my family free rides whenever they wanted to see the sights.

The night I dodged a flying bottle to the face by the light of a flickering bulb was the night I decided to wander out into the city on my own.

* * *

Exploring this abyss at night, wearing one of my uncle's jackets over my daily wear for warmth, it seemed like the city and its old architecture harkened even further back in time than the day. Only the abandoned cars and the occasional passing military patrol betrayed the facade to the reality of the present. And perhaps there was some solace in knowing that criminals would be as afraid to venture out against the military than ordinary civilians.

I was eventually drawn to the lights of a single proprietor open after curfew.

The sound of dozens of people chatting was normally camouflaged in the evening traffic, but this time the white noise also echoed down nearby blocks.

The Sky Kid pub was the only business open at this hour, and for good reason.

The place had become the drinking hole of the occupation troops, although the euphoria of victory and conquest had long since given way to envious grumbles about whatever heroics were going on at a front line that might as well have been halfway across the world The talk of eventually returning home to their own families when Erusean rule was finally established or re-established across the continent, as well as whatever else they were going to do while they were here rendered them bored outside of the bar or their duty.

The ambiance, otherwise, was absent.

By that time I realized that my absence alone would not sober up my uncle. I was quickly convinced the only way to weather the tempests at home was to grant him an offering and hope it would appease him.

And it made so much sense to my mind, which was controlled enough by my grumbling stomach. When it came down to it there, I had nothing to lose. They didn't seem like the type to throw a kid in jail for begging, at least when they weren't sober enough to recognize their own rules.

I fidgeted through my pockets and pulled out my harmonica, which the police recovered almost miraculously preserved from the burnt-out remains of my once-childhood home. It rarely ever left my pocket except when I showered or when the teacher confiscated it for the day.

Keeping it helped me keep those memories alive.

I earned the attention of the table next to them when I blew the tuning note. They were right to assume I was a beggar. There was no other way to put food on the table now.

The first tune that came to mind was a theme from a popular Erusean cartoon, the kind that played in the afternoons after school and dubbed in Salavan audio.

And as I began to play, my mind began to shut out everything else but the tune. I strove not to play a single note out of key, although the sadness that started to wash over me made it increasingly difficult to do so.

I didn't want to become numb to those memories. It would breed complacency and help me forget.

I could feel tears seeping down my eyes as I continued to play the song and I knew it would cause them to take pity on me even if I didn't want them to. Because in those minutes, with every note, everything was all right. The voices and figures of the few soldiers that humorously tried to recite the lyrics to that tune in Erusean were replaced with my parents. They were alive, and we had put away the dishes after dinner and we were singing songs by the fireplace to lull me to sleep before school tomorrow.

Every note kept that memory alive, because it was the only thing I could hold onto in this reality.

There was a girl inside the bar, slightly taller than I was and probably slightly older, serving drinks and hurrying the empty glasses back to the sink where they would sit for little more than a minute after rinsing before they were filled back up again. Most likely the barkeep's daughter.

We were separated by the glass on the window, but for some reason, every blurred glance at her transit across the breadth of the bar with almost clockwork precision helped me find that concentration I needed.

And in those few moments, everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

The end of the song brought the end of the dream, the curtain of darkness and depressed soldiers draping over the vision of memories past and beauty present. The song earned their smile, a little clapping, a pat on the head and some change for my trouble before they continued on with their conversation and the next round of drinks.

They put the change in a small pile by the edge of the table, and I slowly cupped it into my hands before shuffling off into the darkness. I tried not to be too conspicuous as I did, fearing that their superior officer might arrest me for stealing. I eventually found my way to a quiet alley a couple of blocks from the bar to count my loot under the moonlight.

My one song had acquired a few Erusean francs in coins and small denomination bills, and letter-coded ration coupons valid for a couple of days.

I could only hope it would appease him enough to help me sleep at night.

* * *

When I returned home my uncle greeted me by figuring out that I had been to that bar.

He began by making it clear what he thought about the people that ran the place. It was exactly the kind of sentiment shared by many of our neighbors and other townspeople but expressed only in the privacy of their dwellings for fear of retribution. And he implied that I was just as low for groveling to them.

The way he seemed to know the barkeep and his family so well also implied that he was one of their regulars prior to the occupation.

Without another word I scooped my earnings out of my pocket and placed them on the table in front of him. His vision almost seemed to glaze over as he stared at them for a few seconds of tense, awkward silence.

He suddenly laughed tragically and pulled me in for a hug. He tearfully apologized for throwing the bottle and then told me he would try sobering up for his nephew. It was a lie soaked in the alcohol that tainted breath, but in the absence of any sort of assurances for either of our futures, it was something to hold onto.

He then told me that her name was Alicia, she was a good apple from a bad tree, and that maybe I should say hello to her sometime, a nice little boy like me needed a friend in this town instead of some old drunkard.

In the absence of anything to fulfill the present, it was a start.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**

_A/N: And without further ado, we plunge back into the familiar and the unfamiliar. Sorry if it's not as concise as I normally make it, I'm trying to get back in the groove of things._

_Oh and my headcanon for San Salvacion is Catalonia._


End file.
